THE PITS AT WOLSINGTON CASTLE

A GOTHIC NOVELLA

BY

Julian Smart

ANTHEMION, BERWICK-UPON-TWEED

MMXXI

Published by Anthemion

© Julian Smart 2021

First Edition

This novella first appeared in Emma Vernon’s Northminster Ghost Stories.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

Made with Jutoh

Chapter I

AFTER the intellectual rigours of Cambridge, that stronghold of learning and beauty, it would be an obscure castle in Cumberland where my emotional fortitude would be tested; where my view of the world would be irrevocably changed; and where I would be assailed by extremes of fear, guilt, love, and joy. I will try to do justice to my experiences in this account, even though I am not a sufficiently skilled scribe to entirely convey their strangeness.

My name is Rufus Longley, a Northumbrian native. Although of unexceptional family, I was lucky enough to attend a grammar school whose teachers were both kind and scholarly, and being well prepared by them, I found myself in Cambridge reading History with men of character and ambition. It was a glorious time, when my curious mind became a stag running wild in a limitless landscape of ideas, robustly tangling antlers with my contemporaries. But by the summer of 1843, when an elaborate graduation ceremony marked the end of this privileged period, I was missing the charms and the simplicity of the North. I had begun to suspect that the pursuit of lofty ideas did not always lead either to truth or happiness; and that perhaps, at least where the more abstract arts were concerned, that they amounted to little more than a gentleman’s toy, a badge proclaiming membership of a certain sort of comfortable club. And I yearned for the realities of my homeland, grounded in family and hard work, in the fierce beauty of sea, moor, and mountain; in the ancient and dependable cycles of small-town life. In short, I was homesick.

I determined to find a setting that contrasted with my esoteric university life, but which would still allow me to deploy my learning. I ruled out various uninspiring positions in Northumberland, but eventually found an advertisement in The Times that piqued my interest. It was to be the general tutor to the child (of unspecified gender) of a Dr Oliver Harwood. The address was Wolsington Castle, Wolsington, Cumberland. I had never heard of this village, or the castle, and was immediately intrigued. The neighbouring county to Northumberland was near enough to home to satisfy my longing for the North, and just far enough away to allow me to keep my sense of independence. I had no hesitation in applying for this – and for no other positions! – and was gratified to be granted an interview. I was to prepare for immediate employment in the event that I was deemed suitable.

And so I found myself travelling northwards by coach and train with my bags and a head full of questions. Did I have the manner expected of a tutor, given that this was my first employment? Would my charge be problematic? What would my lodgings be like? Was this a castle in name only, a pretension afforded by a long-gone defensive keep? Dr Harwood had been unforthcoming. So much the better; I would arrive without prejudice, give my best shot at interview, and – if accepted – would adapt to whatever circumstances I found myself in.

Exhausted from the journey, I arrived in Wolsington village as light was failing, and gratefully put up at The Sun and Moon, which was serviceable enough. As I tucked into my supper, a local fellow with skin the colour and texture of a walnut looked me over.

“Not ’ere to ’help with the ’arvest, then?” he said with a chuckle.

“No,” I said between mouthfuls. “I hope to be a tutor – at the castle.”

“Oh aye,” said the local, exchanging a look with his companions. “Difficult bugger, that Harwood. And mind you don’t fall into no ’oles.” He and his companions laughed. “Always digging. Digging and digging. Looking for a quick way to Australia, I reckon.”

“Surprised Harwood isn’t already on his way there on a convict ship!” said one.

“Now, now, don’t put the lad off,” said another. “The doctor was never convicted of anything.”

“Only conviction ’e ’as is of ’is own importance!” said the walnut-skinned one, emphasising his point by spitting on the floor.

I finished my meal as rapidly as possible, not wanting to hear more. But I reasoned that any antagonism between Dr Harwood and the locals was probably due to their different positions in society, and entirely to be expected. I would keep an open mind, although the comment about holes was peculiar. My tiredness overcame the exertions of my mind and I quickly fell asleep.

~

The landlord of The Sun and Moon had promised to take me to the castle in his carriage, and I was up early smartening myself for Dr Hardwood’s scrutiny. I was becoming nervous, and began to wonder at my own boldness – there must be dozens of better qualified tutors. Would there be a crowd of interviewees, all looking far more experienced and scholarly? That would be humiliating. I tried to reduce my expectations. This was purely an exercise to help me learn the art of presenting myself. Still, after the trouble of the journey, it would be a blow to be rejected.

It was a beautiful day, which lifted my spirits, and as we rounded a bend in the road, I caught sight of a couple of immense castellated towers in the distance. They quickly disappeared behind trees as we turned into the avenue up to the castle, but I knew I must prepare myself for a daunting sight at our destination. I was not disappointed. The two towers I had glimpsed were indeed huge, at either end of a substantial frontage wherein lay a smaller tower, containing a large oak door. There were further wings and battlements that I could scarcely take in. Judging by the general appearance and the weathered sandstone, this building dated from around the fourteenth century at least; perhaps even one or two centuries earlier.

My driver jumped down and unloaded my luggage. “Quite a sight, isn’t it, sir?” he said.

“I... it’s... extraordinary,” I said, staring at the façade. For a minute, I forgot all about the forthcoming ordeal, lost in admiration for the skill and determination of those who brought this edifice into existence. But then there was the sound of a metal latch being operated, and the door swung open. I paid and thanked my driver, and turned to meet my fate.

A middle-aged woman appeared; she had an exhausted look that I suspected was etched permanently into her face.

“I’m the housekeeper, Mrs Robson. Are you Mr Longley? You may come in and wait.”

I was ushered into the hall, which was cavernous and contained an enormous fireplace. I expected to find staff swarming over the place, but with Mrs Robson gone to fetch her master, there was no one about, save a ginger cat that came to rub itself against my legs. It accepted my chin-rubbing appreciatively; at least there was one friendly being here. And thankfully, there were no competing candidates with whom to engage in awkward conversation.

After a couple of minutes, during which I admired the fading tapestries of hunting scenes that adorned the whitewashed walls, I heard heavy male footsteps on stone flags.

Dr Harwood was tall and a little overweight, with a greying beard. He greeted me with a quick, formal smile and shook my hand. “So, Mr Longley. I hope the journey from civilisation into the wilds of Cumberland was not too shocking for you. We’ll talk in the East Study.”

He took me out of the hall and up a warn stone staircase into a room that I supposed was in one of the towers. Books and paintings lined the walls; the most striking portrait was of an attractive woman, in her early forties, wearing an expression that could be a faint smile, or resigned sadness, depending on the light and the viewer’s interpretation. I had difficulty in tearing my gaze from her. Dr Harwood noticed my distraction and made no comment, but cleared his throat and gestured towards a chair by his desk. He sat down on the other side and picked up my letter.

“So. You’ve got a decent History degree from Cambridge, and I imagine you have a good grasp of Philosophy and the Classics. And you are an amateur artist.”

“Yes, sir.”

He picked up the pencil sketch of Trinity College I had included to show off my drawing talent, of which I was rather proud. I had spent many happy hours drawing the colleges and their grounds.

“I also use watercolours,” I said, “and occasionally oils and charcoal.”

He grunted. “But can you be trusted?” he said.

I was too stunned to reply immediately, so he elaborated.

“If you’re to stay within these walls, you need to be completely trustworthy, both morally and with the confidences of the family. Any trespass, any whisper, and you’re out without a reference. Am I plain, Mr Longley?”

“Yes, perfectly, sir – I would have your interests uppermost. I believe I can be trusted totally.”

“You believe, man?”

“I mean, I can indeed, sir. Without any doubt. You have my word.”

He scrutinized me again. “Well. Your reference is in order. I see no reason to prolong this further – I have things to do. Take a walk in the grounds – so I can think properly without you hanging around the place – and I’ll have an answer about your employment in an hour.”

“Of course, sir. What about... the other candidates?”

Harwood waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t believe in making a meal of it. Only need one decent tutor and yours was the first letter I got. Haven’t got time to repeat this nonsense.”

Chapter II

I STEPPED out into the grounds, blinking in the sunshine, slightly dazed from my encounter with the abrupt Dr Harwood. I walked around the side of the castle, and found a formal garden at the rear, with roses in full bloom. I admired the flora and the geometric layout for a while, and then looked up at the rear of the house – no less impressive than the front. In a window on the second floor, a young woman was looking at me with curiosity. I smiled and waved, and she smiled back and raised her hand in a tentative wave, before disappearing.

Was this a servant? Or my student? I was beginning to feel as if I had stepped into a strange dream. If I was not successful in my application, then the intrigue of the place – the frustrated potential for adventure – would surely haunt me.

I walked beyond the formal garden and in the distance I could see some activity near the edge of the woods that bounded the grounds. There appeared to be a wooden structure and a pulley, with a big heap of soil nearby. Two men were sitting on the ground drinking from bottles. This must be what they were referring to at the inn – “digging and digging.” Perhaps, I thought, making a new well? Or prospecting for coal or minerals?

I could draw no conclusion, and I reckoned an hour was about up, so I made my way back to the castle.

Mrs Robson was waiting for me in the hall. “If you’d like to go straight up, Mr Longley,” she said, pointing in the direction of the East Study. “He’s waiting for you.”

Feeling distinctly apprehensive, I knocked on the door and entered. Dr Harwood was sitting at his desk reading a newspaper and drinking a glass of what looked like port. He looked up. “Very well, Mr Longley. The position is yours if you want it. You will have bed and board here, and two pounds a week, payable at the end of the month. Yay or nay?”

I tried not to show my elation. The money was not over-generous considering my education, but for now, the experience and subsistence was all I wanted. “Thank you, sir! Yes, please – I will be honoured to take the position. Thank you!” I said again, making a little bow, which raised a small smile in the doctor.

“Good,” he said. “Mrs Robson will show you to your room, and –”

“I’ll do it, Papa! Then I can give him a tour of the castle! Please, Papa!”

The door had burst open, and a girl of sixteen or seventeen years had skipped into the room – I recognised her from earlier, standing at the window. If this was my student, I could see that I would have to work hard to engage her attention. It was already obvious that she had remarkable energy.

“Julia, please calm down. This is your new tutor, Mr Longley.”

Julia curtseyed and came forward to shake my hand.

“How do you do, Mr Longley! I hope you have had a wonderful journey here. What a lovely day it is! Do you think it will rain later?”

“Julia!” said Dr Harwood sternly. “Please don’t be so silly.”

“I’m sorry,” said Julia, not looking repentant. “The thing is, I don’t get to meet new people much,” she said, looking up at me. “I’m still learning social etiquette. But I did rather overdo it, didn’t I?” She giggled and tugged at my sleeve. “Come on, let’s find your room. Where’s your luggage?”

Dr Harwood made a dismissive gesture and went back to his port, while I meekly allowed myself to be led back to the hall to collect my luggage.

“What do you think of our house, Mr Longley? Isn’t it mad?” said Julia as I picked up my bags.

“It’s quite extraordinary,” I said. “I can’t imagine growing up in a place like this. Could you ever get bored of it?”

“Oh, I get bored,” said Julia. “I mean, not of the castle, just of not having enough people to talk to. We don’t have many dinner parties, and I think the locals are a bit afraid of us. But you’ll let me talk, won’t you? Not just about lessons? My old tutor was such a dry old stick – I didn’t care to talk to him.”

I smiled. “Will I have any choice in the matter?”

“None at all,” said Julia breezily. “Now – your room is in the North Wing, right at the back, with the servants, I’m afraid. Not that we have many left, thanks to Papa and his moods. First, I’m going to show you the Peacock Drawing Room. You’ll like it!”

We went through a gloomy corridor, at the end of which Julia flung open a door to reveal a magnificent space, hung with ageing peacock-adorned wallpaper and family portraits, illuminated by massive, mullioned windows. A walnut Broadwood piano took up one corner of the room; groups of tables and chairs, and sofas arranged opposite each other, suggested civilised gatherings of the great and the good. But where was the lady of the house, to preside over such pleasant events? I was beginning to feel her absence, and fervently hoped that she would suddenly appear to give a womanly balance to the place, and that she was not – as I feared – permanently missing from this picturesque scene.

“It’s quite beautiful,” I said, taking it all in. “Stunning, in fact.”

Julia looked pleased at my reaction. “I do love it so. If only it were used more often.” She sighed. “Come on – there’s lots more.”

We roamed further through the corridors and I was introduced to a perplexing array of rooms with colourful names. There was not merely an armoury: there was an East Armoury and a West Armoury, each filled with ancient suits and weapons of war. There was a room devoted to statues, and several more that were just picture galleries. How in the world could anyone need or use so much space?

Finally, we got to the North Wing, the servants’ quarters, and my room.

“It’s a bit monkish,” said Julia. “Will it be all right?” She looked genuinely anxious for my welfare, which I found touching.

The room looked into the courtyard that the castle enclosed; it could have been cleaner, and the décor was drab – a rather dirty whitewash, with a religious picture over the bed – but it would do. There was a desk and a couple of chairs, and a small bookcase which I proceeded to partially fill with the volumes I had brought with me.

“It will suit me very well, Miss Harwood! My needs are simple.” In fact, I felt a sense of relief at having my own, unpretentious private space. The grandiosity of the castle was beginning to exhaust me.

Julia looked at the books I had arranged. “The Bride of Lammermoor! One of my favourites, Mr Longley. So very sad! I cried for two days.”

“I confess I shed a tear myself at the end,” I said. “It’s a trifle melodramatic, though, isn’t it? I certainly wasn’t expecting the quicksand.”

“You wanted a happy ending? But that would be pointless, wouldn’t it?”

I had to concede that she was right. An orgy of violence and death was entirely the correct ending for the book, which followed a fairly grim path from the start.

“Well! I had better let you have some peace and quiet, Mr Longley. I’m looking forward to my first lesson! Shall I see you tomorrow morning?”

“Yes, yes, I suppose we shall begin immediately! Thank you for your solicitous welcome, Miss Harwood. Until tomorrow.”

Julia curtseyed again, giggled and scurried off, bursting into song, which reverberated eerily through the stone corridors.

Chapter III

AT midday, feeling hungry, I sought out the kitchen, and the cook – a Mrs Edith Melshir – gave me some broth and bread. I assumed that I would be expected to eat with the servants, which suited me well as I had no desire for the formality of a family meal.

“Tell me, Mrs Melshir,” I said as I tucked into the broth, “is there a Mrs Harwood? I’ve not seen any sign of her yet.”

“Oh dear,” said Mrs Melshir, abandoning her crockery-washing duties and sitting down at the table. “That’s quite a story. I’m not sure it’s my place... but you’ll have to hear sooner or later. Poor Miss Margaret – Mrs Harwood. It’s been an unhappy house for many years, and Dr Harwood has a temper. And,” she said, lowering her voice and looking around, “he drinks. Something awful he does. Well, Mrs Harwood was very affected by this, and things got worse. The doctor started going off to the inns in the evening and not coming back until the next day, and rumours started to spread about women. Not of the best sort, if you take my meaning.”

I nodded.

“So you could imagine what it was like for Mrs Harwood. She became that melancholic, it was unbearable to see. She was like that for a couple of years or so, and then all of a sudden, she changed. It was like a cloud had lifted. She started smiling again, and remarking on changes in the garden – nothing like what she’d been. It was a miracle.”

Mrs Melshir’s was smiling at the thought of this, but the smile quickly faded. “And then...” She found a handkerchief and pressed it to her face. “She... fell.”

It took a while for Mrs Melshir to compose herself, during which time I absorbed this grisly news and its implications.

Presently, she continued: “Little Julia was but five years old. To lose her mother like that... too dreadful. Mrs Harwood fell from the East Tower – the room at the top. How could she do it? She was so happy, and she had a lovely daughter... But they all said she destroyed herself, no question.”

“How terrible. Pardon my presumption,” I said, “but could it be the prospect of release from her husband that cured her melancholia?”

“It could be, but I have other ideas. I shall say no more.” Mrs Melshir got up to resume pot-washing. “Anyway, fortunately Miss Julia is quite content, just a little lacking in company and stimulation now and again. So that’s something.”

“Indeed, Mrs Melshir. Miss Harwood seems a delightful young woman,” I said, “and I will be privileged to teach her. Do you have any advice for me?”

Mrs Melshir considered. “Well – she loves to draw. One of her favourite things, besides reading. So you’ll get on her good side if you encourage that!”

~

The next morning, I went to the schoolroom, which was oak-panelled and reminded me of my ancient Cambridge college. It would be a suitable place to teach; not too decorative, but not too austere either. Julia was waiting with a pile of workbooks to show me, and I soon got an idea of her state of knowledge, which was quite impressive. It would make things easier for me.

After I had set her some Latin translation, and she had patiently worked at it for an hour, we broke for a walk outside.

“Tell me, Miss Harwood, if it’s not impertinent – is your father a practising doctor? I’ve not seen any patients, or a surgery. Or does he practise elsewhere? Forgive me, you don’t need to answer.”

She laughed. “Oh, that’s quite all right. It may seem odd. No, he’s given all that up, but he does have his scientific investigations, as he calls them, in the basement. I don’t really know what they’re about, but there are sometimes very nasty smells, and he has live mice delivered! Ugh. I don’t even want to think about it.”

“Goodness,” I said, both intrigued and disturbed by this. “So... the estate supports the upkeep?”

“Not entirely. My father has another source of income, which is quite clever, but not altogether... correct, I think. You have probably noticed the excavations?”

I nodded. “I was told in the inn to avoid falling into any holes!”

“Quite,” she said. “There are a few of these pits around the place. And lots of old filled-in pits. We’re in the middle of a Swiss cheese!”

“But how does this provide income?” I asked. “Are they mines?”

“Ah! You’ve not heard of the Wolsington Treasure, then?”

I shook my head.

“It’s a local myth. Supposedly, one of our ancestors had a falling-out with some neighbours in the fifteenth century, and thought they would come and pillage the castle. So he buried a few chests full of coins and jewellery and maybe other valuable things, somewhere in the grounds. And ever since, there have been books that mention it, and people make up ridiculous theories using geometry and Bible passages and Lord knows what else. There are old copper mineshafts here, really deep some of them, and a lot of people think they’re actually the original treasure location.”

“My word!” I said. “And people believe these theories enough to come and dig?”

“Yes! And Papa charges them for a licence to dig, and then he charges them again for staying in his cottages. He makes them sign an agreement so that he gets half of the treasure if it’s found. I don’t think he believes in the treasure at all, so I really cannot approve. What do you think, Mr Longley? Is it wrong?”

I stopped to admire a butterfly that had alighted on a bush near us, and considered this ethical matter. “If it’s not deceptive, and these people really want to dig, then I suppose there’s no harm done, is there?”

“But that’s the point!” said Julia. “These people can’t really afford it. Either they’re coming here after work when they’re exhausted, and their children and wives hardly ever get to see them, or they have relatives that help pay for them to dig, or they’re just using all their savings and letting their family starve. All on the prospect of immeasurable wealth which is not at all likely to be found – if it even exists at all, which I doubt. It’s like gambling – some people get so obsessed, they can’t help it, and everything else is forgotten.”

“Yes, a kind of illness, almost,” I observed.

“Quite! You see it, Mr Longley! Why can’t my father?”

“You would all be put in a difficult position without the income, which must provide a great temptation for encouraging the diggers. Not that I am implying he is doing anything wrong, at least knowingly. Well, it’s a strange situation, and no doubt worthy of a philosophical treatise. Which I do not propose to write.”

“Please don’t, Mr Longley, or Papa would get rid of you and I would get some stuffy stick again.”

I was glad that I compared well with my predecessors.

“I will be on my best behaviour, Miss Harwood! I don’t like to quit a challenge so soon.”

Julia adopted a mock-affronted expression. “A challenge, Mr Longley? I might have to live up to that.” And as if to prove her point, she pulled off her shoes and started to run. “Last one to that tree has to sing a song!”

~

Evidently sensing she might have gone too far, Julia trotted around the tree for a while to let me catch up, and only touched the trunk after I did. “Sorry, Mr Longley. I couldn’t really make you sing – that would be cruel if you didn’t want to.”

“I assure you, Miss Harwood,” I said, attempting to wrest back control of the situation as surely a responsible tutor should, “that if I didn’t want to sing, I would not sing.”

She giggled at that; she had the damnedest way of making light of everything. Although she had an immature manner, I could not be certain that it was not all a performance for my benefit. In any case, how could I possibly strike the right note as her tutor, when her instinct was to treat me as something akin to a brother? And yet, this banter was pleasant enough.

“So now I have to sing. I will choose a song that my mother used to sing to me when I was little, to send me to sleep. I know it’s a bit childish, so please don’t laugh at me, Mr Longley.”

“Of course not. Please go ahead, Miss Harwood.”

Julia composed herself, folding her hands in front of her and adopting a professional stare into the middle distance.

Tom, he was a piper’s son,

He learnt to play when he was young,

And all the tune that he could play

Was ‘over the hills and far away’;

Over the hills and a great way off,

The wind shall blow my top-knot off.

Despite my promise, we both laughed at the last line. She sang a couple more verses, and I applauded. She made a little bow, and sighed.

“My poor mother. That was always so comforting; I thought she would always be there to sing me to sleep.”

“I’m so sorry about your mother,” I said, hardly daring to tread on this delicate ground. “I cannot imagine how much it must have hurt.”

“Yes. It hurt dreadfully. It still hurts... but less now. Sometimes I wish I could speak to her, though, just to let her know how I am and what I’m doing, and then hear her gentle voice, which I still remember.”

She suddenly looked up at me. “How did you know?”

“Mrs Melshir told me. I’m afraid I asked, because I was wondering if I would see Mrs Harwood.”

“And I suppose she told you what everyone says around here?” Her light-hearted mood had quite disappeared.

“No, no – just that she didn’t think that she had...”

“I knew it! Everyone thinks that my father is a murderer. How wonderful. So that makes me a murderer’s daughter. But perhaps that’s better! Better than a daughter who was so unimportant, so annoying, so – hard to love – that her mother killed herself without a second thought.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, distraught to have brought the conversation to this point. “I didn’t mean –”

But she ran off sobbing to the castle, and her lessons – and my lessons – were over for the day.

Chapter IV

THE following day, I apologised again for reviving old memories, and Julia graciously apologised in return. However, I resolved to keep an appropriate distance as her teacher, even though it was tempting to be her friend.

The following Saturday, there being no lessons, I was bored and decided to walk to the village, and brave The Sun and Moon to find some company. The landlord, at least, was friendly. I was feeling jaded from a lack of exercise, and so I broke into a run. When I arrived at the inn, I was short of breath and sweating, and one of the customers shouted, “Who’s after you? Did you touch the doctor’s daughter?”

The others laughed, but I was not going to be put off. “I remembered how good the beer was here,” I replied, and tried to ignore them.

I sat down at a table at the other end of the room, and awaited my beer. The landlord, Mr Shepston, served it himself. “How are you doing at the castle, sir? Are you settling in?”

“I am, thank you, Mr Shepston,” I said, “and the work is far from onerous. I have so far avoided falling into any pit, and the doctor and I have managed to steer clear of each other for the most part.”

“That’s good to hear, sir. Yes, the treasure hunters are a rum bunch. May I?” he said, with a gesture at the chair opposite me. I nodded assent and he sat down, and leant towards me. “I’ve heard that one of them killed himself a few months back, because his missus was raging at him for being a good-for-nothing. No money coming in, and I dare say no prospect of a return for all that digging!”

“That’s shocking!” I said, disturbed by this revelation. How naive I was to think that it was a harmless activity.

“Aye. That doctor has a lot to answer for. And do you know why he’s not a doctor any more?”

“No, I didn’t think it polite to ask at the castle.”

“Well, I’ll tell you,” said Shepston, clearly relishing this. “He had a fancy practice in Carlisle, but being a drunkard, and a lecher – begging your pardon, sir, since he’s your employer, but I say it as I see it – he had a reputation with his patients. His lady patients, that is. He was too well thought-of to suffer any consequences at first, until he tried it on with the daughter of an MP – a very well-connected MP at that. So he was forced out, and now we have to deal with him hanging around here – and The Red Lion – bringing in his tarts and lording it over us.”

This was more knowledge about my employer than I needed, or wanted, to know. “That is certainly quite a tale, but I will have to keep an open mind about the man if I am to remain in his employ,” I said, draining my tankard. “He may have a redeeming quality or two, so I shall try not to judge him.”

“That’s the spirit, sir!” said Shepston wryly. “Christian forgiveness and tolerance. Very admirable, to be sure. Please ignore me; I am a tattle-tale and an uncharitable wretch. Another, sir?”

“I should really be going. Oh, very well, Mr Shepston. Just one more. And I would like your opinion of something else, though I’m sure I shall regret asking.”

“Oh aye, sir? What’s that? Tell you what, I’ll fetch your ale, and then I’ll try to answer your question.”

Indeed, I had already regretted even thinking of asking about Mrs Harwood. It was all too likely to result in another lurid tale, whose veracity would surely be highly questionable but which would raise unpleasant suggestions in my mind that would be hard to dismiss. But the strong ale had affected my judgement, and I was set upon this course.

“Here you go, sir. Now – what’s this question of yours?”

“Mrs Harwood. Do you think she destroyed herself? Have you heard anything?”

“Ah, now you’re talking, sir. Poor Mrs Harwood. She never set foot in here, but my cousin John Ridley – the butcher – he said she was a very sweet and friendly woman. Right cut up he was when she died, and not just because he lost a customer! Anyway, he knows one of the treasure hunters, and he said that Mrs Harwood was sweet on one of the others.”

“You mean someone who was digging on the castle estate?”

“Exactly, sir. Someone who perhaps didn’t mind what treasure he got his hands on!”

Shepston guffawed at his own wit, and then put up his hand in a gesture of remorse. “I’m sorry, sir, it’s no laughing matter. But affairs of the heart can lead to mischief, can’t they? I will let you decide what a man might do when he finds another digging in his patch.” The landlord gave a knowing look, and left me to contemplate this disagreeable information.

~

When I got back to the castle, Mrs Robson intercepted me in the hall and told me that Dr Harwood wanted a word with me, at four o’clock sharp in the East Study. I just had time to smarten myself up, and arrived at the East Study at the appointed time. I knocked and entered, but it was empty.

I was able to have a better look around. There was a fine collection of books, both ancient and contemporary. Mrs Harwood must have sat here reading by the window. Now all that was left of her was a beautiful picture that must be hard to bear for those who loved her.

A strange sound intruded on my thoughts – it sounded like a child crying. But it was one of those sounds that exist at the edge of perception, so that one can not quite be sure of its nature, the confounded brain comparing the sensation with one remembered sound after another in an attempt to find a suitable interpretation. It could have been a bird calling, a servant shouting, or even a creaky door. But it continued, and I became more confident that it was a miserable child.

The sound disappeared – at least from my conscious mind – when Dr Harwood strode in, grunting a greeting. I took up my place in a chair before his desk and adopted a respectful, attentive stance.

“I gather you are managing satisfactorily,” he said. “My daughter seems to be full of the joys of Latin syntax, differentiation and Turkish mosques.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Miss Harwood is a highly intelligent and talented young woman, so my work is not in the least onerous.” I was relieved, since the doctor’s dissatisfaction with my work – and a change of heart regarding my employment – had been a worrying possibility.

“Good, good,” he said absently, and produced a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, which he pushed towards me. “This is what I wanted to talk to you about.”

I took a look at the paper – it had a rough sketch of a map on it, with various landmarks and markings, and a cross with a circle near the centre of it. “A – treasure map?” I ventured.

“Yes, exactly,” he said. “I drew it – it’s nonsense, of course. But I have a bet with a friend – and it requires a map that looks ancient and genuine. Now, you have artistic skills, so I would like you to turn them to creating such a document. It shouldn’t be hard for you, and I have some books and materials in my laboratory that you should be able to use to create the right effect.”

“I see – an interesting task,” I said, dismayed at the implications that were starting to form in my head. “This bet...”

“Never mind about that, man,” he retorted. “The details are not important to you. I just need you to create this map – doesn’t have to be exactly as I drew it; you can use your artistic imagination. So long as it’s not too near the house. Are we agreed?”

“Yes, yes, of course, sir,” I said as I reluctantly took up the paper.

“Excellent. I’ll have the books and materials sent to your room. Let me know if you need more. And you should be able to find some blank pages in these books” – he gestured at the bookcases – “to use for the paper. Anything up to the seventeenth century should be suitable.”

~

I decided to take some air and think over this turn of events. I was now being asked to forge a document, and I knew very well that refusal was not compatible with my continued employment at the castle. Was there really a bet, or was this to encourage the treasure hunters to continue their excavations? If the latter, then creating such a document was at best ethically reprehensible.

Julia appeared around the corner of one of the towers, humming. “Hello!” she said. “I’m so very bored! Have you any suggestions, that don’t involve books?”

“Good afternoon, Miss Harwood. Well – since it’s such a nice day, how about some sketching?”

She beamed at this, and said, “Of course! But only if you sketch with me. Please? I can’t bear to be on my own for a minute longer.”

This was the second instruction in the space of an hour that I was unable to refuse, but this task would be much more agreeable.

“With pleasure,” I said. “Shall I meet you in the formal garden over there, in ten minutes? We can practise some architectural drawing.”

So we presently assembled with our sketching pads and sat on the white iron bench at the far side of the formal garden.

For a while, we sat silently absorbed in the task, until Julia said, “Drat! Why can I not draw straight lines?”

“They don’t need to be particularly straight,” I said, “otherwise the effect would be mechanical and dull. Wobbly lines are an expression of your character!”

“Very clever, Mr Tutor, but I think you are making excuses for me. This castle would fall down immediately if it were built on my plan. A child could do better.”

“Speaking of children,” I said, “are there any – in the castle, I mean? Perhaps belonging to a servant, or someone visiting the castle?”

“Certainly not,” said Julia. “I’m sure if there were, Papa would have them sent away immediately. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” I said, “it’s just that I thought I heard a child crying. It must have been a dog, or a fox, or some other animal.”

Julia stopped drawing. “Was it in the East Study, by any chance?”

“Why yes! How on earth did you know?”

Julia put her sketchbook and pencil down on the bench, stood up, and stretched. “That would be Iris,” she said. “She died when she was seven, in seventeen something. 1720, I think. She was a sickly child, and a fever finally carried her off. It’s awfully sad.”

She folded her arms, as if reassuring herself, and continued. “The East Study used to be a nursery. My mother used to love it in there, and spent hours sitting and reading by the window, or doing her needlework. But I remember being very cross with her, because she used to sing the same songs that she sang to me – but to Iris. She wanted to comfort her.”

My expression must have been betrayed my utter astonishment, because Julia burst out laughing and said, “Your face! I should try sketching that!”

“I – I’m not sure what to say! It’s too extraordinary. So I’ve just heard a ghost?”

“Yes, Mr Tutor. You have. There, I’ve told you something you didn’t know, for a change! I didn’t like to tell you before that the castle is haunted, and scare you away, and anyway I didn’t think you would believe me.”

Julia’s eye was caught by the construction over the pit that I had noticed previously. “That’s odd,” she said. “There hasn’t been much digging lately. Maybe they’ve found the treasure!”

“Or they’ve given up,” I said.

“Oh dear,” she said. “Papa will not be pleased with that. We have some leaky roofs that need to be fixed – mind you, there’s always at least one leak. But if they’ve found the treasure, Papa will be in a much better mood, and maybe he’ll buy me my own horse.”

“I think we would know if something had been found. There would be a lot of noise and excitement.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” she sighed, and resumed her drawing until it was time to go in for supper.

Chapter V

THAT night, I was tormented by bad dreams. First, I was in the East Study, which had had its bookshelves, pictures and furniture stripped away so that the only thing left in the room was a child, huddled in the corner crying. Then I was outside, looking up at the front of the house and a dark form moving in a window high up. The form fell to the ground, and I rushed towards it thinking it was Julia. But the person turned over, with blood streaming from her head, and I realised it was the woman in the picture – Mrs Harwood. Her eyes opened and she said, “My Bible! Where’s my Bible?”

I awoke with a start, and was relieved to see, in the gloom, the outlines of the humble accoutrements of my room. I was disturbed by my dreams, but at the same time, I was becoming fascinated by the life and fate of Mrs Harwood. I resolved to talk to the butcher, Ridley, and see if he could supply me with further information.

Meanwhile, I thought I might as well get started on the map. Dawn was slowly filling the room with light, and I pulled on some clothes and made my way to the East Study. Only a maid was stirring at this hour, and the quiet of the house, combined with the dawn light, brought on a strange euphoria – a gladness to be alive, and to have a place and a purpose.

This feeling increased as I opened the door to the study. There was Mrs Harwood, with her beautiful, sad expression; and the tasteful pieces of furniture, which – in their restrained elegance – were of the sort I would have, were I lucky enough to be able to afford them. I sat in the armchair by the window for a while, lost in a philosophical haze, and presently was surprised by a strong scent of roses that seemed to have come from nowhere. The window was not open, and there were no flowers in the room, but the aroma was unmistakable.

Roused from my reverie, I stood up and picked up the paper knife lying on the desk. I inspected the bookcase for likely victims, and chose an ancient-looking volume with a crumbling leather binding. It was a memoir by some long-forgotten author, and probably monumentally dull. Looking inside, I found the date – 1697 – and also some suitable blank pages at the front and back. I tore them out carefully with the paper knife and put the book back, feeling quite guilty for this desecration, even though it had been sanctioned by my employer.

Again a strong wave of the rose scent came over me, and I felt a little giddy; at the same time, I felt a rush of cool air at the back of my neck. Disconcerted, I quickly left the study and hurried back to my room, clutching the plundered pages, hoping I would not have to explain myself to anyone along the way.

Later in the morning, Mrs Robson brought me a box of equipment for my nefarious endeavour – vials of acid, some inks, a pen, a metal tray, a map of the Wolsington estate, and a book on the history of forgery. This latter was wrapped in brown paper, a wise precaution on the part of the doctor. There was also a folded note from the doctor, urging my confidentiality and expressing the hope of a successful result soon.

I sat down to read the book that the doctor had given me. Mostly it was history; there were some methodological explanations, applying in the main to works of art and not document forgery. I would have to improvise as best I could.

I worked out a more detailed version of the doctor’s map in my sketchbook, adding elements from the estate map, and then transferred it to one of the sheets. The result looked too fresh, so I tore the edges, crumpled the paper up, straightened it out again, and put the sheet in the tray before pouring a few drops of the acid here and there, etching away the surface and ink as if it had been handled a great deal. This still did not entirely please me, but I had an idea; so I went to the kitchen and asked Mrs Melshir for a pot of strong tea.

My early rise was starting to take its toll, so I stayed to drink a couple of cups and perhaps get some more information from the cook.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said regarding Mrs Harwood,” I said. “How sad that she didn’t have anyone to turn to.”

Mrs Melshir refilled my cup and said, “Perhaps she did. Like I said, she was happy before she died. Perhaps that’s who she was visiting.”

“Visiting?”

“She went out a lot – she and Dr Harwood hardly spent any time together. He’s mostly in his basement, doing his experiments, or reading the paper, or – most likely – passed out from the drink. So he didn’t even notice what she did. I saw her carriage go out several times a week. No one knew where – she said she was going to see her old ladies – her charitable work – or to the shops, but she never came back with anything new. And the driver wasn’t saying.”

“Interesting,” I said. “It’s good to know that she may have been content towards the end.”

“Yes, it’s something, isn’t it?” Mrs Melshir. “She always had a spring in her step when she returned.”

I took a fresh pot of tea back to my room, and poured some onto the paper. When it dried, it looked suitably foxed; however, some of the acid and tea stains had made it quite difficult to read, and I wanted to add some authenticating text implying authorship by a Harwood ancestor, so I would need to start again using the second sheet. But I felt I had made some progress.

~

In need of fresh air, I took a walk around the castle. I found Julia throwing crumbs of food at a bird. “Oh, good morning, Mr Longley!” Julia said brightly. “Come and meet Geoffrey.”

On closer inspection, Geoffrey was a handsome magpie, his iridescent feathers flashing in the sun.

“What are you feeding him?” I asked.

“Cheese! He loves it. Mm. So do I,” she said, popping a piece into her mouth. “Would you like some?”

“He won’t mind?”

“Of course not. Will you, Geoffrey?”

As I took a piece of cheese, the bird surprisingly said, “Geoffrey!”

“He talks!” I exclaimed. “Good Lord. I didn’t know magpies could do that.”

“Oh yes,” said Julia, “but only to people they like. They’re very clever. Cheese, Geoffrey?”

“Cheese!” said the bird. “Cheese, Geoffrey!”

I laughed. It was so absurd. The bird was now showing off. “Dinner-time, Miss Julia. Cheese!” it squawked. I threw a piece of cheese near my feet to see whether it would come closer. After looking at me sideways, with a frighteningly intelligent demeanour, it hopped towards me. “Where’s my Bible?” it said, before grabbing the cheese and retreating to a safe distance.

“Mr Longley, are you all right?”

I barely heard Julia, as a frisson of horror advanced over my body. How could the bird have known that phrase?

“Mr Longley?”

“Sorry – I just – did you teach him that?” I said.

“No, but it’s funny! What a clever bird. Wherever did you get that from, Geoffrey?”

“Cheese!” said the bird.

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” said Julia. “Papa would like you to have dinner with us this evening. He’s bringing a friend, Miss Letitia Frank.” A shadow passed over her countenance. “I’ll be glad for you to be there. I’m afraid I can’t bear her.”

“That’s very kind of your father. I will be pleased to come – and I am most intrigued to meet his friend.”

“Don’t be – she’s a gaudy tart.”

I was shocked. “Miss Harwood! That’s a most ungenerous thing to say – not to mention terrible language for a young woman to use.”

“Well, Mrs Melshir said it when she didn’t know I was listening. Maybe she’s not a tart, but she’s an actress, so she may as well be.”

“Actresses are by their nature flamboyant, and I’m sure your father would not invite someone to the house who was not respectable.”

“Huh!” said Julia. “That’s all I’ve got, Geoffrey! You’ll have to go and find some worms.”

~

When I arrived at the dining room, only Julia was there, humming to herself and staring out of the window. “Good evening, Miss Harwood,” I said, and she spun around.

“Thank goodness, Mr Longley,” she said. “I didn’t want to have to talk to her on my own.”

I put my finger to my lips, as I could hear raucous laughter. Dr Harwood came in with Miss Frank on his arm. She was fashionably dressed, and wore a purple shawl that I imagined could have been a gift from an admirer. As could the tiara, which explained the cook’s unkind epithet.

“Aha, here he is! The very man. Mr Longley, may I introduce my friend Miss Frank. Letitia, this is Mr Rufus Longley, who is attempting to stuff some facts into my daughter’s head. A challenge, eh, Mr Longley? Not the greatest concentration, and apt to waste time on trivial novels.”

I bowed slightly; Miss Frank gave a crooked smile and extended a hand for me to kiss. I said, “Miss Harwood has a very fine mind, for absorbing facts as well as some of the better fiction, which will let her hold her own in a social setting. It’s a pleasure to be her tutor.” I caught Julia’s eye: she seemed thankful for my defence of her.

“Well done, Mr Longley,” said Dr Harwood, slapping my back in a fashion I did not particularly care for. “Top marks for saying the right thing. Now – I need wine. Please do sit down.”

The conversation was mainly quite dull, but the food – especially the pheasant – was a welcome change from the simple fare that Mrs Melshir usually prepared for me.

Miss Frank had an annoying habit of using Dr Harwood’s Christian name frequently. “Oliver and I” – “Do you remember, Oliver” – “Oh Oliver, you bad man”. It seemed a little too much like one of her theatrical performances, and I could see Julia cringing.

“So, Oliver,” Miss Frank said with her wine glass in her hand, after the main course had been consumed, “what news of your poor treasure hunters? Have they found any gold? Or maybe just some of your ancestors’ bones? How they have the heart to keep going, I can’t imagine!”

“Well, my dear, it’s quite simple,” slurred Dr Harwood, red-faced from a poisonous quantity of wine. “Sheer greed and stupidity, and also something to do with the fact that occasionally I tip a handful of coins down their pits! But I get it back from them, a hundred-fold.” He roared with laughter, while Miss Frank pretended to be shocked.

“Papa!” said Julia, appalled by this. “How could you! You don’t really...?”

“Don’t worry, Julia – if anything’s found, you’ll have your precious horse. Meanwhile, the diggers have their little hobby, which they do perfectly willingly. No one is forcing them.”

“But I haven’t seen them for a while, Papa. Perhaps they’ve finally decided there’s nothing there.”

Dr Harwood smiled. “Ah! But we might be able to entice them back, eh, Mr Longley?”

I tried to adopt an expression of innocence and neutrality, and hid behind my wine glass.

At length, the meal was done with, and we moved to the Peacock Drawing Room. Despite the time of year, Dr Harwood had ordered a fire to be set, and many candles had been lit. Miss Frank draped herself picturesquely over a chaise longue, while Dr Harwood sat nearby drinking port and smoking a cheroot, making little attempt to disguise his pleasure in this display.

Julia and I sat awkwardly on a sofa, and I tried to make conversation.

“Dr Harwood – may I ask how your scientific investigations are going? Can we read about them?”

The doctor straightened up and, looking pleased to be asked, took another puff on his cheroot. “Ah, well, I have a monograph in mind, perhaps this year. My study is” – he paused for dramatic effect – “putrefaction.”

“Oh, Oliver!” said Miss Frank, putting her hand to her face in a gesture of horror, while Julia rolled her eyes. “How disgusting. You haven’t mentioned this to me before!”

“It’s not really a subject to gladden the heart of the ladies, is it?” Dr Harwood said, clearly delighted with the reaction. “I am interested in the biological processes that consume flesh after death. We have much to learn about the microscopic organisms that are around us, waiting for us to expire like so many invisible vultures.”

Miss Frank wrinkled her nose.

Dr Harwood continued. “I intend to categorise the many types of organisms involved, and how long putrefaction takes, based on temperature, exposure, how the host died, and so on.”

“That is fascinating work,” I said, politely. “I would imagine this could be used to help prevent or treat infections, if we can attack the organisms?”

“Yes – of course, we already know a little. We know to bathe and protect a wound, and use alcohol, and in the past, leeches were used in an attempt to draw the putrefaction. Primitive and useless, of course, but perhaps there was a grain of wisdom in it. However, we know very little about the organisms that cause decay. And I intend to investigate how this knowledge can be used by the police in understanding when a victim has died. There is some work being done on this already, but I have some of my own thoughts.”

Dr Harwood paused to take a swig from his port glass.

“I also have an idea that my work could be applied to the study of ageing. After all, it is a kind of very gradual putrefaction of the living.” He laughed grimly and turned to Miss Frank. “Yes, even you, my dear, even your lovely skin and fair complexion will start to shrivel before too long, and you will find out what all women find out – that this state of grace, of beauty and perfection, does not last very long. Your allure will fade, as with all of your cohort.”

Miss Frank was evidently mortified, and a stony look had set on her face. “Papa –” began Julia in an attempt to interrupt this cruel speech, but Dr Harwood held up his hand and continued.

“No, I’m afraid it’s quite true, however we wish it to be otherwise. So we may as well understand it better, and who knows, we might mitigate it slightly.”

“I think you’re being just beastly, Papa. You’re drunk, of course. Well, good night, Mr Longley, Miss Frank, and I’m truly sorry about him.” And she left, slamming the door behind her, while Dr Harwood made an elaborate show of not caring, puffing in a leisurely manner on his cheroot and smiling.

I lingered only as long as I felt necessary, and soon excused myself, leaving Miss Frank and Dr Harwood to what I assumed would be a very strained conversation.

Chapter VI

THE following Tuesday, Julia complained of a cold, and retired to bed; I decided that a walk into the village would do my constitution good, and I could pay a visit on the butcher at the same time.

Mr Ridley was alone in his shop when I found him, looking at his accounts. “Morning, sir,” he said, looking a little surprised to see an unfamiliar face. “What can I get for you?”

“Good morning,” I said, and realised that launching straight into my questioning might not be the best strategy. “I’ll have... half a pound of sausages, please.” What on earth was I going to do with these? But I could donate them to the kitchen, if they didn’t attract a pack of wild animals on the walk back.

“Certainly, sir.” Mr Ridley put the meat on the scales. “New to the area, are you, sir?”

“Yes, I’m a tutor up at the castle,” I replied. “I’ve been told some sad tales about the late Mrs Harwood, and her friend in the village. Would you happen to know about that?”

“Oh aye, well, it’s sad right enough. Mrs Harwood was a generous and polite lady, and a regular customer: liked to choose the meat herself, out of boredom, I shouldn’t wonder! But I don’t know as I should be gossiping, though, sir – I don’t want to get on Dr Harwood’s bad side.”

“It’s not gossip, simply information. And I would be most grateful – I assure you it will go no further.”

Mr Ridley stopped weighing the sausages and looked up at me.

“Well! It’s got to you, hasn’t it, sir? The riddle of Mrs Harwood, I mean. You need to watch your curious side doesn’t get you into trouble one day, and I mean that in a friendly way, like! That Dr Harwood has a temper on him.”

“Thank you – I will be careful.”

“Very well. Mrs Harwood’s friend has a sister in the village. He’s gone now – I don’t know where – but she’s still here. So I think the best you could do is talk to her – if she wants to talk, which I doubt, sir, because no one likes to bring trouble on themselves. You can find her on Lavender Street: number five, it is. Miss Katherine Beatty.”

Mr Ridley wrapped the sausages carefully in brown paper. Another customer came in, and as I paid, he winked at me and said, “Good luck with your... sausages, sir!”

I thanked him, and left. As I stood outside the shop with my unwanted sausages, I realised that I had no idea where Lavender Street was. However, exploring the village was not unpleasant, and after twenty minutes I found the street, and number five – a small, pretty stone cottage. Suddenly this seemed a terrible idea. Who was I to pry into other people’s tragedies? What would it gain me? What justification did I have to hurt others by bringing back unwelcome memories? Yet I did not know how to shrug it off. I had to discover just what had happened to Mrs Harwood. Perhaps it was partly my protective feelings for Julia – that she deserved to know the fate of her own mother. However, even the wisdom of that was not clear: knowledge could simply bring more pain.

Stepping back from the door, I saw a patch of Michaelmas daisies in the distance, and went to gather up a bunch. Thus armed, I knocked on the door.

After a moment, a woman in her forties answered. “Yes?” she said, warily.

“Miss Beatty? I’m so sorry to disturb you. My name is Rufus Longley, and I’m a tutor at the castle. I hope I’m not intruding, but I just wanted to talk to you about...”

“About Ned?” She stood there, holding on to the door. “Why?”

“I... I was just upset about Mrs Harwood, and wanted to understand her. Sorry – I shouldn’t really have come. These are for you.” I offered her the purple flowers, and I saw a flicker of a smile.

“Goodness,” she said. “You are an odd one, to be sure. Come in, then. Can’t promise you’ll hear anything you want to hear. But I don’t mind some company. Tea?”

“Thank you, Miss Beatty,” I said, gratefully. “Yes, tea would be most welcome.”

She ushered me into the main room, and gestured for me to sit in an armchair by the hearth. Having put the flowers into a vase and served tea, she sat down opposite me.

“So you’re educating little Julia, are you? Not so little now, I expect. Rattling around a draughty old castle doesn’t seem any place for a young man like you!”

I laughed. “It must seem that way, but I’m enjoying it nonetheless. This is my first employment, and I’m grateful to Dr Harwood.”

She frowned. “That devil. I won’t speak of him, or I’ll say something I’ll regret.” She took a sip of tea. “But you wanted to know about Ned. He left very suddenly, just before that business, and I miss him. I miss him something awful.” Her eyes filled with tears, and she dabbed them with her apron.

“So your brother was a treasure hunter, Miss Beatty?” I enquired as gently as I could.

“Oh yes, he was one of those fools. It was a kind of madness amongst his friends – they would have maps, and books, and talk of little else – finding the treasure, and spending it. They fancied themselves in big houses with servants and women and horses. Some charlatans would take the Wolsington Treasure myth and write pamphlets with maps and new theories – so they would make money out of it, while my brother and his stupid friends would be led on a wild goose chase, digging those pits and being bled dry by – by that man. My brother was not bad, Mr –”

“Longley.”

“Mr Longley. But he would not be told. And he met Mrs Harwood by chance when she was walking in the castle grounds, and they became friends. It was the death of her, and maybe the ruin of him.”

“Did you meet Mrs Harwood?”

“Oh yes. She used to come here, to visit Ned. I could not fault her, Mr Longley – she was beautiful, and funny, and as kind as they come. It was bold of her to love an uneducated man like my brother – and yet it seems learning doesn’t always count the most, does it, Mr Longley?”

“I couldn’t agree more, Miss Beatty. Did they meet here often?”

“Indeed they did – once or twice a week for more than a year. I may go to Hell for permitting it, but I could see how happy they were, and I could not refuse Ned. Sometimes I would go out and visit a friend, to let them be.”

“It was kind of you – you should have no regrets about that. Mrs Harwood and your brother deserved some happiness.”

“That they did. Mrs Harwood was so sweet. And sweet-smelling, Mr Longley,” she added. “She had this scent that she always brought with her, so distinct, and suited the lady so well.”

“Yes?”

“Roses! A lovely smell of roses. I think that’s partly why Ned fell for her. Intoxicating for a man, I’ll be bound.”

Rattled as I was, I tried to consign this information to the back of my mind, as I could scarcely absorb the implications now. A related thought occurred to me. “Miss Beatty, do you remember if she brought a Bible? Maybe to read with Ned? Something she might have left behind?”

“Hah!” she snorted. “Unless there’s been a change in the English language, ‘reading the Bible’ was not what they were about, when they were at my house anyway. And I never saw her bring one – there’s only mine here, which has been in the family forever.”

“And Mrs Harwood didn’t seem melancholic, and liable to harm herself?”

“No, nothing like that – I reckoned she wanted to live for every moment God gave her. Of course, a lady like that knows how to hide her true feelings; but no, she didn’t seem that kind of person at all. Ned did fear what Dr Harwood would do if he found out. He would often worry about it when she had gone.”

“And do you think he did? Find out, I mean?”

“That I can’t say,” said Miss Beatty, gathering up the tea cups. “There’s them that like to gossip, so it’s not impossible. Ned up and left, around the time Mrs Harwood died; he was not what you might call reliable, and I wasn’t surprised he left without telling me. When he was young, he would run away for weeks at a time. But after he went away, I thought he might write a letter – just one, at least, to tell me how he is! And now it’s been over ten years.”

I sensed that this was all the useful information I was likely to get, and felt I was in danger of outstaying my welcome, especially as her eyes were beginning to water again. “Well, thank you so much, Miss Beatty,” I said. “It’s good of you to talk to me. I have a better image of Mrs Harwood in my mind. Oh – do you have any use for half a pound of sausages?”

~

When I got back to my room at the castle, I wanted a task to distract myself with, so I embarked on a second attempt at the map. Besides, I did not wish to risk Dr Harwood’s wrath.

I had got some way into this task when I clumsily spilled my bottle of ink over the paper. Cursing, I cleaned up with some rags, but the map was ruined. I would have to retrieve more old paper.

No one was in the East Study. I entered with trepidation, and scanned the bookshelves for something suitable. There were some likely-looking volumes on the very top shelf, but they were out of reach, so I looked around for a ladder. There appeared to be nothing of the sort, until I remembered a clever sort of chair I had seen at Cambridge, which looked like a normal chair but could be converted into steps. Indeed, there was such a chair, which I had previously thought nothing of. I fumbled with it until I found how it opened, and pushed it up against the shelves.

There was a book with a black binding with worn gold lettering, now illegible. I pulled it out, loosened a ribbon that secured it, and looked at the flyleaf. It was marked in spidery handwriting: “To our dear Margaret, with love from Mama and Papa.”

I had found her Bible.

I descended the steps carefully, and with shaking hands I laid the book on the desk and started to leaf through it. Something seemed wrong about its weight. I opened the book from the middle, and to my amazement, discovered a compartment inside, containing another little book – a notebook – secured to the compartment with string, presumably to avoid a tell-tale rattle.

I sensed that this was too important to examine with the risk of anyone – especially Dr Harwood – coming into the study. So I shut the Bible up again, and swapped it with a book of similar proportions on a lower shelf. I managed to find two old pages from another book on the top shelf, and then I returned the ladder to its former state and position. I furtively went to the door and checked that the coast was clear, before once more taking up the Bible, spacing out the nearby books to cover the gap, and walking back to my room. I was terrified that I would be stopped and quizzed about the Bible, and nearly broke into a run, but I made it to my room without incident. I drew the bolt on my door, sat down at the table that served as my desk, and opened the Bible.

Someone – presumably Margaret – had taken a risk in cutting up the Bible, given that most people would view it as an act of desecration. It also showed her determination in keeping secrets from her husband, which would have drawn anger even before examining the notebook. But how did it come to be in the East Study, hiding in plain sight? Perhaps a maid had found it somewhere else, maybe under Margaret’s mattress or in a coffer, and had innocently found it a new home in the study. Dr Harwood would not have been looking for it, and so he would not have noticed it high up on the shelf amongst all the other old books.

I hesitated before opening the notebook. Did I have any business finding out Margaret’s secrets? And yet I was beginning to feel close to her – close enough to think of her as Margaret, and not Mrs Harwood. If her death was not as it had been supposed, then she would surely wish the truth to come out – for her daughter to know that her mother had not wilfully abandoned her, even if the alternative account brought its own pain. It seemed that the task of finding that truth had been laid at my feet, whether I wanted it or not; it could be no mere coincidence that the diary had fallen into my hands.

I held the diary up to my face and breathed in: there it was, the unmistakable, sweet aroma of roses. It both awed me and sharpened my determination. Opening the book at a random page, I read the following.

April 6th, 1828. How Julia grows! And she is learning words so quickly. I am worried she will repeat something that Oliver has said when he has been drinking. Can one teach a child to forget something? I fear not, and Julia is so bright that she will understand far too much, especially from a person’s tone of voice. However, I will not dwell on that; I will be cheerful and give her everything her burgeoning mind needs. Her first attempts at singing are charming and I have high hopes that she will be musical.

April 7th, 1828. The poor diggers have dug more trenches and scarred our beautiful land. If only Oliver could find a different and more reliable form of income than extracting money for false hope. But he cannot put his training to use now. I heard Iris again in the East Study, and I don’t think I have heard anything so sad. I wish I could help her, but what can I do, here in my century, so far from hers?

The writing was small and hard to read – to build a complete picture was going to take time. Most of the entries were quite mundane; however, accounts of some bad dreams caught my eye.

August 17th, 1828. I had such a strange dream. A young, handsome man led me outside – it was foggy and I couldn’t see where he was taking me. Eventually we got to a hole in the ground – one of the pits, I suppose – and he pointed to it, saying “Stranger, warm thyself!” Then a crowd of people were coming towards us, in a most sinister way. He turned to face them, and they advanced, knocking him down, and still they were coming towards me. Fortunately I woke before they reached me, but I was in such a fright. What could this mean? Are the people the excavators, coming to take revenge on us having found nothing? Who was the young man? He seemed real and distinct, and yet like no one I have met.

September 22nd, 1828. I had the dream again. The young man led me out of the house; this time it was only a little misty, and I could see ruined walls nearby. Again he pointed at a hole in the ground, and again he was overwhelmed by the horrible crowd. This time I could almost feel their breath on me before I woke. I do hope I never have this dream again!

March 5th, 1829. It has been so long since I had the dream about the pit, that I supposed it had gone for good. But alas, no. I could see that I was being led to the abbey; it was a clear night with a full moon, and the young man was pointing at the pit again, saying something unintelligible. And again came the mob, overwhelming the poor man. I ran and ran, and they were close behind; I tripped and could hear them laughing. Then I awoke in a most unpleasant state of perspiration. I wonder, should I see a doctor? But he would simply dismiss me as a hysterical woman with too little to occupy my mind.

March 28th, 1829. I cannot shake the dream. Again he said “Stranger, warm thyself!” and again he disappeared under the feet of the mob. This time when I ran, I became trapped inside part of the abbey ruins, and ran around and around trying to find a way out, before waking up exhausted.

I had noticed the ruined abbey within the castle’s grounds – mostly only outlines of rooms remained, mere patterns of stones in memorial to the grand building that once proudly asserted the glory of God and the solemnity of its occupants; but the odd standing fragment of wall remained unplundered. In light of Margaret’s dreams, I was curious about the abbey. Perhaps Julia could tell me more about it.

Chapter VII

THE following morning, Julia was feeling better. It was a sunny day, so I proposed a sketching expedition and picnic.

Julia’s eyes lit up. “Oh, yes please!” she said. “I couldn’t bear a minute longer indoors. Where shall we go?”

“How about the abbey ruins?” I said. “They should make for good subjects, and I’d like you to tell me a bit about them.”

“Perfect!” said Julia, and she ran off to get her drawing things, while I scavenged some supplies from the kitchen.

“It seems so horrid to knock down a whole abbey,” Julia said as we walked towards the ruins. “It must have been magnificent. Stained glass windows... vaulted ceilings... And all destroyed because Henry the Eighth wanted to divorce his wife! What an unspeakable brute he was.”

“It does seem mad now. I don’t know why Henry couldn’t have simply requisitioned them, but I suppose he wanted to make a point. Anyway, we can at least admire the wreckage and try to imagine how it used to be. Now, what do you think this area is?”

We had come to a set of column bases. “The nave!” said Julia. “So the choir would have been here, and that rubble to the side would have been the transept.”

She wandered over to a square pattern of walls and column bases a few yards away. “The cloisters,” she said. “Strange to think of the monks chanting away here.”

We sat down on a low sandstone wall, warmed by the morning’s sunshine, and got out our sketchbooks. While we drew, Julia told me some stories about the abbey – its origins in the twelfth century, the sightings of monkish ghosts, which houses on the estate were built from stones from the abbey, and how many men of the cloth were slaughtered when Henry’s thugs came to burn the place down in 1535.

After a while, Julia said, “If I were a man, I would go to university and study history. I would have liked to become a history professor. It’s not at all fair. Or do you agree with my father, in the way things are ordered for men and women?”

“I don’t know what opinion your father has on this matter,” I said.

“But you can imagine, can’t you, Mr Longley?”

I sighed. “Yes, I can imagine. I’m sorry – you’re right, it isn’t fair. I cannot see any rational justification for restricting a woman’s choices, beyond the need for some of them to repopulate the species. However, it didn’t stop Boadicea, or Joan of Arc, or Jane Austen for that matter!”

“I could secretly write historical novels,” Julia said. “Then I can teach history and make up stories at the same time – and no one, not even my father, could stop me!”

“You write them, Miss Harwood,” I said, “and I’ll read them and give you my opinion.”

Julia turned to me and smiled. “Would you, Mr Longley? And you would tell me if you thought them unutterable, childish rubbish?”

“I would be more tactful than that. And I’m sure it would not be rubbish. But I might see some things that could be improved, and I would definitely let you know – in the kindest terms possible, of course!”

“Of course!” said Julia, and she gently laid her hand on my arm in gratitude. “Thank you, Mr Tutor! I feel a little inspired. I might include the abbey in my first novel. And perhaps you might make an appearance, as a stern but fair teacher that the heroine falls madly in love with!”

I was touched at this, and reddened a little. “I look forward to reading it,” I said. “Shall we have some lunch?”

~

We had just had our fill of bread, cheese and apples, when the wind got up, carrying with it some rain.

“Brrr,” said Julia. “I wish I had brought a better coat, but it was so sunny.” She looked around. “There’s a little house over there,” she said, pointing at the vestiges of a building a few hundred yards away. “We could shelter there for a while.”

We gathered up our things and chose a corner that was relatively protected from the elements.

“That’s better,” said Julia. But she was still shivering a little, and moved closer towards me. “Do you mind?” she asked. “I’m sure it’s not improper if it’s to stop a person from catching pneumonia!”

I put my arm around her, and in a few minutes she relaxed. “I’m so sleepy. I think it’s the cheese,” she said, yawning, and her head sagged onto my shoulder.

It occurred to me that I should stop this at once – that I could not be a gentleman if I allowed this proximity, innocent though it may be. But Julia was so content, and – I had to confess – so was I; so I remained still, almost holding my breath lest this moment be disturbed and lost. The rain stopped and the sun came out again; as I listened to the birdsong and watched a bee in the long grass, my mind emptied of all coherent thought.

“I’ve just remembered,” Julia murmured sleepily, her eyes closed.

“Yes? Remembered what?”

“The name of this little house. They liked to keep guests separate from the main abbey buildings, for some reason. It’s called the House for Strangers.”

~

“Stranger, warm thyself!” That was what Margaret’s mysterious young man had said to her. How would one warm oneself? In front of a roaring fire. I looked around at the room, now enclosed in a low, ragged ribbon of stone. Near us, in the middle of one end of the room, a flat stone with burn marks indicated the probable presence of a hearth.

This would make an excellent location for my fake map, providing a little piece of mythology to whet the appetites of the treasure hunters. I would barely need to be creative. At that moment, a cloud passed overhead, making me shiver and providing a physical manifestation of the shame I suddenly felt. Here I was with the most innocent of people, and I was planning to dupe men for their money. I reminded myself that this was not my doing – this was Dr Harwood’s instruction, and I had little choice. And I would do everything I could to mitigate the effects of my duplicity – how, I did not know.

Chapter VIII

ON my way back to my room, I went to the East Study where I remembered seeing a book about Wolsington Abbey, and brought it back to study. In the book I found a plan of the abbey, which now looked familiar from my scrutiny of the ruins. It was clearer than the estate map that I already had, and I used it in making a new rough version of my map, this time marking the House for Strangers as the location of the mysterious treasure.

I forged the signature of the ancestor supposedly responsible for burying the treasure, Sir James de Harwold, and wrote the following under the map in nearly unintelligible script:

Warm thyself, Stranger

For my Hearth is all ye neede

To keep thyself from Danger

Thyself, and all thy Seede.

It took another two days, after I had finished my tuition duties (which were – I confess – more pleasure than duty), to transfer this to the old paper and use my little portfolio of tricks to create an aged effect. I worked the paper in my hand, folded it, tore it a little, poured tea on it, etched an area with acid, and heated it – until it looked as scruffy and foxed as I imagined an ancient treasure map should. I waited for it to dry, and then with the elation of an artist having completed a masterpiece, I placed it inside a book of philosophical essays and sought out my employer. I did not find Dr Harwood in the East Study, so I ventured down to his basement laboratory, a place I had not dared to explore previously. I knocked at the door, but there was no answer. I tried the door: it was open, so I tentatively went inside.

There was an impressive array of equipment on the benches: different kinds of microscope, trays, bottles of liquid, preserved specimens, magnifying lenses, thermometers, flasks, and various grim-looking knives and utensils whose purpose I neither knew nor wished to know. Most impressive of all were the many chests of shallow drawers containing, presumably, various specimens and slides. I could not resist the temptation to look through some of them. There must have been thousands of glass slides, all meticulously labelled.

I read some of the labels.

RAT: SPLEEN, 14/5/1831 10am

RAT: SPLEEN, 14/5/1831 11am

E.B.: BRAIN, 28/6/1831 4pm

E.B.: BRAIN, 28/6/1831 8pm

A horrible idea coursed through my mind and ran down my spine, on the way sending a tingling sensation through the hairs on my neck. The physical reaction occurred before I had even begun to take stock of these simple words. E.B. could surely not be – a person? How would Dr Harwood have got hold of such material? And was 1831 not Mrs Harwood’s last year on Earth?

I started to feel dizzy, and turned towards the door. I opened it, and to my further horror, Dr Harwood was standing there, eyebrow raised to question my presence here.

“Your map! I’ve finished the map!” I stammered, aware that my voice had taken on an unnaturally high and hoarse timbre. I opened the book and produced the sheet. I suddenly wondered if this was not in fact an awful, amateur effort. “The idea is,” I continued, “that Sir James de Harwold created the map for his kin to find the treasure in case he were to die before retrieving it himself.”

He took the map, and went to his desk to examine it with a lens. He grunted approval and sniggered at my verse.

“That looks fine, Mr Longley. Good enough, at any rate, to excite those poor fools. Was it much trouble?”

“No – no trouble at all, Dr Harwood,” I said, recovering my usual voice and – I hoped – an appearance of relaxed confidence. “I quite enjoyed the task. Especially dousing it in finest Indian tea.”

Dr Harwood smiled. “Excellent. Off you go, then. I expect you’ve had a good snoop around my laboratory.”

“I just came in – it’s splendid, Dr Harwood, and magnificently equipped.”

“It is. I mustn’t keep you from your supper – good evening, Mr Longley.”

~

As I made my way back to my room, I tried to keep my mind a perfect blank. I could not begin to give my suspicions free reign: I needed to maintain my composure in case I passed anyone in the corridor. I knew exactly what the initials “E.B.” meant, and the implications were beyond horrifying.

Time seemed to slow down as I made my way through the castle; I felt as though at any moment, Dr Harwood would appear again and confront me with what I knew – or feared I knew. And Dr Harwood might be a very dangerous man.

It was with considerable relief that I shut the door of my room and flung myself on my bed, holding my head in my hands as if I could blot out the world and any uncomfortable knowledge.

If “E.B.” were really Edward Beatty, then Dr Harwood’s investigations on the subject of decay had broadened from small creatures to the human male. Ned had not, after all, gone to seek his fortune in Carlisle, but had been slaughtered in some manner, probably within the walls of this castle, his brain-pan opened, and his brain tissue mounted upon many glass slides for the doctor’s relentless examination over hours, days, perhaps months.

Could this really be true? Surely such a conclusion was too outrageous to be contemplated: such criminal and inhuman activities taking place here, perpetrated by my own employer. And yet, the evidence – the initials, the date and Ned’s disappearance – led inexorably to this unhappy conclusion. Strangely, there was a part of me that was not surprised – that is, the doctor’s demeanour and what I knew of him from hearsay seemed quite compatible with cruelty and coldness.

If Dr Harwood was capable of murdering Ned, then it was easy to imagine him taking Margaret’s life, too. It was likely that the trysts had been discovered, and Oliver did not seem to be the forgiving type. Perhaps the diary would shed more light on the three main actors’ states of mind. With trembling fingers, I leafed through Margaret’s notebook until I got to the entries for 1830, the year before her death.

January 12th, 1830. My dear maid Sophie was in a terrible misery today. She did not want to tell me the cause, but at last through her tears she indicated that Oliver had made advances to her. She had managed to push him off, but it is a worry. I had fervently hoped and prayed that this wantonness of his was all in the past, but alas, no. I fear he will get bolder, and cause very great mischief. I cannot lose my Sophie! and she, loyal servant that she is, does not deserve this ill-use. What am I to do?

January 15th, 1830. When I saw Oliver this morning, his face was covered in scratches, and I have not seen Sophie. I think she must have run away last night. I will try to find her in the village, and at least bring her few belongings. It is a disaster.

January 16th, 1830. Sophie is with her aunt. I took her things, and she could barely look me in the eye. This has wrought a terrible change in her; she is quiet, pale and frightened, when before she was full of hope and kindness. And she will not get a character for her next employment! Too awful. I wish I had never laid eyes on Oliver.

January 18th, 1830. Mrs Robson was worried about my melancholia and is looking after Julia. Mrs Robson can be a little cool, but she has a kind heart and is fond of Julia. I have sought sanctuary in the East Study, where thankfully Oliver rarely comes. Iris was sad too, and I sang to her, because that is all the good I can do to anyone, dead or alive.

March 2nd, 1830. One of the treasure hunters had an accident today, and his friend brought him to the house. His head had a nasty wound from a nail in the pit supports, and Mrs Melshir and I washed and dressed it as best we could. I made him rest in the pantry, and we got to talking. His name is Ned. Though he is an unsophisticated man, he has a good heart and a genuine disposition that I find so lacking in people of my own class! It was easy to talk to him, and his yearning to find a way out of his mean existence touched me. There is something to be said for youthful privations as a motivation for improvement.

March 5th, 1830. I brought Ned and his companion some bread and cider, and some fruit. I took Julia, and she asked Ned if he had found any treasure. He looked at me with a broad smile, and then back at Julia, and replied that he had. “Treasure is any joy that life brings you, Miss Harwood,” he said. “Just keep digging until you find it.” Julia looked puzzled, as well she might. I fervently hope that Julia will find happiness! But it can be so elusive, even with all our advantages.

March 20th, 1830. Oliver is away for a few days, Lord knows where. Ned and I have been walking in the grounds, and our favourite place is the abbey – despite my bad dreams. Ned finds my life so strange, and I his; and yet we can still talk about nature, about the things that all humans experience, about love and grief. I have lent him some novels, which he promises to read even though it will be slow-going for him. He bent to kiss me today, and I wanted him to, but I drew back. I would be mad to succumb; or mad not to, I cannot decide. Would I then be any better than Oliver?

April 6th, 1830. I hardly dare record this, but it is too late to avoid recklessness now. I accompanied Ned to his sister’s cottage in the village – a small but sweet house. His sister left to visit a friend, and Ned and I were for the first time alone indoors. It was glorious. He kissed me, and I think it may be the most beautiful moment of my life. Ned is so gentle, for all that life has thrown at him. The feeling of longing that he excites in me makes me fear what I am capable of. It was never this way with Oliver, who I always have to play-act for and whose concern is always for himself.

June 30th, 1830. I visited Ned’s sister today. What luck to find Ned there! The kind of luck that Ned and I take pains to make. She went away, and Ned was so kind and generous to me. I hope I did not look unusual on my return; and I do feel pangs of guilt when I look at Julia. But I hope that when grown, she would not blame me if she knew everything.

At this point I had to wipe the tears from my eyes. I was deeply affected by the passion and the pain described in the diary; I felt for Margaret, and I could see in my mind’s eye the cocky but kind Edward, who probably could scarcely believe his luck, but whom I am sure was genuine in his affections for Margaret.

After a short break, I continued reading.

September 3rd, 1830. Ned has been worrying about what Oliver might do. I have tried to assure him that Oliver may be a brute, but he does not have tendencies towards proper violence. I hope I am right. Ned wants me to bring Julia and go away with him to Carlisle, where he says he can find work. Of course I have told him that this is out of the question. Julia’s future is here, and in our society, and I cannot simply throw it away. But sometimes I confess I am tempted to seek a quite different life, away from the shadow cast by Oliver and this home – that is so unhomely.

September 27th, 1830. We walked in the abbey today, and Ned saw one of the monks for a brief moment – a dark hooded shape. However, I did not see it. It apparently walked through the cloisters into where the refectory used to be, and then disappeared. Ned gave chase, thinking that we were being spied on, but there was nobody. Even when talking about Oliver, I have not seen him so unsettled before, and this is a man who willingly descends thirty feet into a dark, damp pit. He said it is an omen. I do not know what to think – I am used to strangeness here.

The light was now failing and my eyes were becoming strained, so I hid the diary behind some other books, and went to fetch some supper.

Chapter IX

WHAT I had read in Margaret’s diary did not contradict my suspicions about Oliver. I longed to talk to someone about it; I obviously could not discuss such an explosive theory with Julia, but I thought that Mrs Melshir was someone who might be trusted. And so the following Saturday, I found her alone in the kitchen resting from her labours.

“Can I make you a cup of tea, Mrs Melshir?” I asked.

“Good Lord! Why, to be sure, Mr Longley, thank you – I would love a cup of tea. My feet hurt something rotten.” Then she looked up suspiciously. “What are you after, begging your pardon, sir?”

“Just a chat,” I said breezily. “If you don’t mind?”

“Right you are. I don’t suppose you have a lot of people to talk to, here!”

“No, Mrs Melshir,” I said. “It is a bit lonely, when I’m not teaching. I can’t even persuade Geoffrey to come and talk to me!”

Mrs Melshir laughed. “Poor Mr Longley. Reduced to sweet-talking the servants!” She winked at me. “Mr Melshir will get worried.”

“You are a handsome woman, Mrs Melshir, but your virtue is safe with me,” I said, putting the kettle on the hob.

Mrs Melshir did her best to look coquettish, and then gave up the attempt and sighed. “So – anything in particular you wanted to talk about?”

I sat down and waited for the kettle to boil. “Tell me, Mrs Melshir. Do you think Dr Harwood is... a dangerous man? I mean, given his history with women, and I believe even with servants in this house?”

Mrs Melshir considered the point. “It’s true he only thinks of himself and his selfish needs. That could lead a man to evil. There was that maid... what was her name...”

“Sophie?”

“The Devil! How did you know that?”

“Just hearsay in the village,” I said.

“Poor Sophie. But she gave him a taste of his own medicine – right cut up he was, all over his face, and I dare not think where else besides. I don’t know what became of her after she left.”

I found the tea and a teapot, and poured in the now boiling water. “Did he ever bother you, Mrs Melshir?” I said.

“I’d like to see him try! I would deal with him, I would. But I’m not his type. He likes the willowy sort, not the... fulsome kind like me! And he likes them young. Probably likes them intact, too – begging your pardon for my frankness.”

“Not at all. I appreciate it. I suppose what I’m really asking is... do you think he would be driven to extremes, if he were jealous?”

“It’s more than possible, Mr Longley. I still have my doubts about Mrs Harwood, as I’ve said before.”

“And Ned Beatty?” I said, as I poured our tea.

Mrs Melshir spun towards me and put her hand up to her mouth. “Oh Lord! I did wonder about Ned. I just didn’t want to believe it.” She glanced at the door and lowered her voice. “I can’t go accusing the doctor of that sort of thing. If I’m wrong, I’m out in a trice. If I’m right – then he would be a murderer, and I would be in mortal danger! So that’s why I don’t like to discuss it, or even think about it, Mr Longley. No good could come of it.”

“What about justice, Mrs Melshir? Justice for Margaret, and justice for Ned and his family. And Julia... is she safe here?”

Mrs Melshir looked troubled. “I have no power – no one would believe me, and it would go badly for me. Very badly.”

“I’m not suggesting you should poke a stick into the hornet’s nest on your own,” I said, “but there may be something that I could do. I’m only speculating at the moment; there is no hard evidence, so as you say, Mrs Melshir, probably nothing can be done.”

The relief showed on the cook’s face, and she sipped her tea. “Do be careful, Mr Longley. But it’s not right. The Lord will judge him, and where he’s going, he won’t be catching a chill, you mark my words!”

~

I felt slightly better for discussing my fears with another person, although I was unable to reveal all that I knew. I did in fact have some evidence, or at least I knew where it was – the slides. That could, of course, be covered up quickly enough, or perhaps some plausible explanation invented. This was probably why Dr Harwood had been so careless with the evidence. In his arrogance, he assumed that no one would believe such a grisly truth, and he might well be right.

I had an irrational desire to find Julia and check that she was safe; and I also longed for a dose of her energy and vivaciousness. I needed to forget my fears, just for a while. I wandered about the castle until I heard piano music coming from the Peacock Drawing Room. I stood in the doorway for a few minutes, listening to Julia play a Bach air with delightful skill and sensitivity. When she had finished, I clapped enthusiastically.

“Bravo, bravo!” I said, and she stood up and gave me a little curtsey.

“How nice to find I have an audience,” she said. “I thought only the peacocks were listening.”

“Perhaps we should cultivate Geoffrey’s musical side – I think if he could whistle Bach, you could invite paying visitors.”

Julia leafed through the pile of music on the piano in search of something else to play. “Geoffrey has never shown any interest in music, I’m afraid. However, it’s possible that he could be bribed with some cheese.”

“Speaking of cheese,” I said, a little hesitantly, “I did enjoy our drawing trip this week. Thank you!”

Julia looked at me with a penetrating, intense gaze. I found it difficult not to look away, because it stirred and disturbed me. “I had a lovely time too, Mr Longley. I hope I wasn’t any... trouble?”

“I assure you that you were not,” I said. “Not in the least.” Julia smiled at that, and I knew that she had caught the emotion in my voice and understood the nuance of my reply.

“Good,” she said. “We have established that we both enjoyed our picnic. May we go on another soon? I mean,” she added with forced solemnity, “something very educational, of course.”

“I would like nothing more, Miss Harwood,” I said, scanning the room for a comfortable chair. “And please don’t let me stop you – I’ll just sit by the window and listen, if you don’t mind.”

She flashed another of her luminous smiles at me and took her seat at the piano. “Not at all. Beethoven, this time,” she said, and began to play. I leaned back in my luxuriously-upholstered armchair with its view of the castle grounds, and watched the birds squabbling in the trees.

~

I was aware of unutterably sad, slow piano chords. It sounded familiar; what was it? A mature woman’s voice was now singing.

When I am laid, am laid in the earth,

May my wrongs create

No trouble, no trouble in thy breast.

I opened my eyes. Although I could only see her back, I knew immediately that it was Margaret, and the song was Dido’s Lament, by Purcell.

When I am laid, am laid in the earth,

May my wrongs create

No trouble, no trouble in thy breast;

Remember me, remember me, but ah! forget my fate.

Remember me, but ah! forget my fate.

The last chords reverberated around the room, and Margaret bowed her head, starting to quietly sob. I couldn’t bear it, and tried to leap from my chair; but I could not. I was pinned to it by an invisible force. I shouted, “Margaret!” and she turned slowly, becoming her own portrait as she revealed herself, her tears causing the coloured paint to run down her cheeks.

I felt myself being shaken, and awoke with a start. Julia was looking down at me. “Mr Longley! Are you all right? Why were you calling my mother’s name?”

I looked around me. Only Julia was in the room.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, standing up. “I fell asleep – your playing was very soothing. I dreamt of your mother.”

Julia flinched. “What was she doing?” she asked.

“She was playing and singing. It was quite beautiful, but so sad.”

“Please don’t tell me what it was,” said Julia.

I promised not to.

“I miss her so much,” she said, and her lips began to quiver. “But I must be strong, mustn’t I?”

“Not all the time,” I said. “Sometimes you can just grieve.”

“Thank you,” she said, and suddenly wrapped her arms about me, and wept into my waistcoat.

Instinctively I held her, and tried to comfort her. I cursed Dr Harwood, or whoever or whatever had taken Julia’s mother from her so early. It was too cruel.

Presently I became aware of a figure standing in the doorway. It was the doctor. How long had he been there?

“Is this what I pay your wages for, Mr Longley? What kind of education are you giving my daughter?”

He had not raised his voice much, and I got the feeling that he was merely going through the motions.

I hastily disentangled myself. “I’m sorry, sir – Miss Harwood was upset. We were talking about her mother, and naturally...”

“Never mind about that,” he snapped. “I have good news. Your artistry has worked, and new people are moving in.” He waved towards the window, and sure enough, in the distance a group of men were moving towards the abbey with various pieces of equipment and a donkey-cart loaded with planks.

Julia turned her tear-stained face up at me. “What did you do, Mr Longley?” The look of hurt was dreadful.

While I tried to find some words, Dr Harwood laughed. “A magic trick,” he said. “A little sleight of hand to bring in the customers. Did you imagine him pure and incorruptible? You have learned another valuable lesson from your tutor, Julia!”

~

The following week’s lessons were frosty. Julia would not accept my apology, and she responded only in monosyllables. I did not have an adequate explanations for my actions. It pained me to see her so disillusioned with me – and by extension, with men in general. I began to realise what it meant to me, to be cut off from her goodwill.

After a couple of days, I could bear it no more. Before the day started, I gathered up a posy of flowers from the garden, and presented it to her.

“Please, Miss Harwood, may I try to explain myself? I want you to be able to smile at me again. I don’t want you to think badly of me.”

“You might have considered that before you forged a map to dupe poor innocent people out of money they cannot afford to lose.”

“Miss Harwood – Julia. Please let me call you Julia.” She shrugged her shoulders.

“I had to make the map, because otherwise your father would have kicked me out of the castle. And then – then I would not have been able to see you.”

“Oh!” said Julia. “You now choose to blame me for your actions! Sorry, Mr Longley, but that won’t wash. You had a choice, and you chose a criminal act.”

“Please hear me out! I thought I would be able to make amends for it – once I had...”

“Once you had what, Mr Longley?”

“I don’t know exactly,” I admitted. “I just thought that I would be able to somehow help these people. That I could persuade your father that he had wronged them, and that he would compensate them. I was buying time, but I admit it, I did not have a good plan. I’m sorry.”

“Can you see any reason at all why I should not go out now, and tell these people that they have been duped? And then go to see the constables in the morning about it? Because I’m sure I can’t, Mr Longley.” With that, Julia ran off, slamming the classroom door behind her.

I put my head in my hands. I had made everything worse. If the doctor was exposed as a fraud, then so would I – in fact, I imagined that Dr Harwood would have a perfect alibi, and everything would be blamed on me. I had fallen neatly into his trap, placing Julia in a terrible position into the bargain. Even if Julia were not to say anything, Dr Harwood would be able to blackmail me, should he wish to. And then he could compel me to do... to do what, exactly? Was there a greater plan, that I knew nothing of? Indeed, was my employment simply part of this plan? Given the doctor’s area of study, I shuddered to think what he might ask me to do.

Chapter X

THE answer to my question came quicker than I had expected. A maid came to tell me to meet the doctor in his laboratory that evening, and I duly arrived, full of apprehension.

“Mr Longley! Thank you,” said Dr Harwood as I entered the room. “Please sit down. I have another little duty for you, which would much oblige me. Don’t worry, I’m not going to call upon your artistic talents again.”

I sat down on a grubby country chair whose seat was covered in burn marks and chemical stains.

“I need you to run a little errand, using my carriage and driver. You will go to Carlisle tomorrow and fetch an animal. It will be caged, and should pose no difficulty. Do you think you could manage that?”

“Of course, sir,” I said. This did not seem too onerous, although it was a little curious. I knew that he had regular deliveries of small animals, such as mice and rats. Why was special treatment needed for this one?

“What kind of animal, if I may ask, sir?” I said.

“A monkey. Quite small. A travelling circus went bankrupt – mistreated their animals, I believe, and got themselves a reputation. I heard about it and spied an opportunity – so science will be the beneficiary. But I’m too busy here, and anyway, you could do with a change of scene, I’ll be bound.”

I had to admit that an excursion was not unwelcome – it was beginning to feel stifling at the castle, and falling out with Julia had put me in a melancholy state. A little adventure would be a useful distraction, even though it was for a grim purpose. At the back of my mind, I knew that this might just be another step in the doctor’s plan to manipulate me, but I was too exhilarated by the thought of getting out of the castle to care much.

“Certainly, sir. It will be no trouble,” I said.

“Good. Julia can study on her own tomorrow,” he said, reaching for a purse and a scrap of paper on which he had written an address. “You will be fetching the animal from Miss Frank, who has already paid Mr Thompson – that’s the circus man – so the money is to repay Miss Frank. Oh,” he continued, picking up a small package, “and please deliver this letter to Miss Frank.”

~

I left a note for Julia in the schoolroom, asking her to read whatever books took her fancy, or to do some sketching. I had been tempted to add another apology, but could not find a form of words that did not appear insincere and futile, so decided against it.

The driver of the pony trap had been primed for the journey and did not need any instruction. I would have to stay overnight in Carlisle, and Mrs Melshir had packed me a generous basket of food, enough for a week away, let alone a night. The driver was not talkative, wisely putting himself beyond any affairs of the castle; this suited me well. Sunshine lifted my spirits, and as I watched the countryside go past, I entertained the hope that – somehow – my rift with Julia would be healed.

I thought it curious that Miss Frank was the intermediary between the doctor and Mr Thompson; perhaps Miss Frank would be able to furnish an explanation. I turned the doctor’s letter over in my hands. It was well sealed, and its thickness indicated that more than just a letter was contained within.

It was late afternoon when we arrived in Carlisle. We put in at The Dog and Bone, and I went to find Miss Frank. She welcomed me with a smile, and seemed genuinely pleased to see me again. Her lodgings were disappointingly unglamorous: two rooms and a small kitchen, not helped by an unpleasant odour.

“Sorry, Mr Longley – my home does not usually smell of monkey!” she said, and indicated a cage on a table in the corner of the room. She went over to it, and removed a cloth that had been placed over the cage, revealing the animal. It was quite listless, sitting in a corner of his small cage picking at his fur; his coat was bare in places, and some sores were visible on his skin. I could see why Mr Thompson’s company had gained a poor reputation – he was obviously not to be trusted with the welfare of animals.

“Shall we celebrate this transaction with a glass of gin, Mr Longley? I shouldn’t really, with my head, but...”

“Yes, please! Your head?”

“Yes,” she said, “I’ve been having terrible headaches for some weeks. I’m worried to death I have a tumour! It’s funny – I’ve played so many ostentatiously dying women, you would think I’d be used to the idea.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” I said. “Has Dr Harwood suggested anything? Oh – these are for you.” I handed over the purse and the letter.

“Thank you. Yes, he has suggested some changes in my diet, but nothing has helped yet. I’m hoping he has sent more practical help,” she said, and put the letter away in a bureau next to the cage before pouring two glasses of gin.

“I didn’t enjoy how he spoke to you, the other day,” I said. “I fear that – apart from in a medical sense – he doesn’t know how to treat women.”

“Oh, that’s just his way,” she said, sipping her gin. “Not a very chivalrous way, I grant you. Yes, I know – I’ve heard the rumours. But he’s a powerful man, and I’m susceptible to his kind, poor idiot that I am.”

It occurred to me that I had formed an erroneous first impression of Letitia Frank. Her off-hand, worldly-wise manner that night at the castle was a protective shell, and I was seeing her more vulnerable, human side. I liked this Letitia Frank better.

“Might it not be prudent to – distance yourself a little?” I ventured.

She smiled a sad smile. “You don’t know Dr Harwood well yet, do you? It’s not as easy as it sounds. He can be a jealous man. And without him, I would be alone. And I don’t like to be alone.”

She clutched her head again and grimaced, and I desperately wanted to do something to help her. “Let me make you a poultice. Do you have a rag I can use?” She indicated a pile of handkerchiefs and a water jug, and so I dampened a handkerchief and applied it to Miss Frank’s forehead.

“Ah... that’s better. Thank you, Mr Longley! You would make a fine nurse.”

I remembered how my mother soothed me when I was ill, and I took the liberty of gently stroking Miss Frank’s head as I held the poultice. Her eyes closed and she murmured, “Thank you.” Her breathing became slow and regular, and I was happy that I could do some good.

After some minutes, she opened her eyes and said, “Well! Mr Longley, you are a genius! Or at the least, a wizard. My headache is almost gone. You may call regularly!”

“I’m so pleased I could help, Miss Frank.”

There was a knock on the door.

“Bother,” said Miss Frank in a whisper. “I have an unwelcome suitor, and I think that’s him. Let’s wait for him to go away.”

After a few minutes, and a few more knocks, I heard footsteps disappearing down the hallway and out into the street.

“Oh dear!” I said. “It’s not too surprising. But he’s taking a chance, isn’t he, given Dr Harwood...?”

“The fool is putting both him and me in danger,” she said. “I suppose such attention goes with my profession.”

“I must not take up more of your time, Miss Frank,” I said, getting up.

“Must you go? I feel I’m just getting to know you,” said Miss Frank.

“I would be honoured if we were to be friends,” I said. “I would like to know more about your adventures in the theatre!”

She smiled. “Another time, I promise I will tell you some tales. I hope to see you at the castle soon.”

“Good! I hope so too. By the way, do you have any idea why Dr Harwood didn’t simply get me to fetch the animal directly from Mr Thompson?”

Miss Frank shrugged. “I have no idea. He’s always full of schemes; I’ve given up trying to understand him. But I’m glad we had the opportunity to talk.”

I took up the cage, kissed her hand, and made my way out of the lodging house. I passed a man who looked at me suspiciously, and wondered if that was Miss Frank’s would-be suitor.

I managed to sneak the monkey into my room at The Dog and Bone without being challenged. I chatted to the monkey as I washed myself with the water that had been brought up for me; my voice seemed to have a soothing effect, as it stopped picking at its fur, and stared at me with its sad, wide eyes. I chopped up an apple from Mrs Melshir’s lunch basket, and gave it to the animal along with some nuts. Though he was still wary, I fancied that he did not actively dislike me. But I was not prepared to risk handling the animal just yet – an infected bite would be a serious matter.

~

Feeling a little refreshed, I went downstairs to find something to eat. I nodded at my driver, who had already fallen into conversation with what appeared to be old friends, and ordered myself some supper. Abigail – the barmaid – was a friendly woman in early middle age, with a confident manner and an easy smile.

“What brings you here, sir? Business? A tryst, perhaps?”

“Business, alas,” I said. “I’m fetching something my employer purchased, for his scientific work.”

“Oh! Pardon me, but I wouldn’t have had you down as a delivery boy. Too refined, I’d say!”

I smiled. “Normally I teach, and I hope I won’t have to do this often, but Dr Harwood –”

Abigail’s smile froze on her face, and I realised I had already blurted out more than I had intended.

“Dear God,” she murmured. “Your employer is Dr Harwood?”

“Yes, Oliver Harwood. Do you know of him?”

She tried to disguise her shock with a forced smile. “Never mind, sir. Never mind. That’s all in the past, and best left there.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you,” I said, “but please, can you tell me why this name is so upsetting to you?”

Abigail shrugged. “I can’t be telling gossip about your employer, sir. It would not be fair. And I’m not inclined to remember.”

“Please – this is important to me,” I said, “and perhaps to his daughter. I need to know about him. Can you not tell me a little? Perhaps for a shilling?”

She looked at me disapprovingly. “I don’t need your money, sir, unless in exchange for something this inn can provide.” She sighed. “You look honest enough. But I can’t tell you here. If you really need to know, I could come to your room later.”

“Yes – yes, please! I would be so grateful,” I said. “Thank you.”

She nodded, and went to attend to my supper.

~

“Pardon me, but what is that smell?” said Abigail as she came into the room.

“I’m sorry – it’s what I came here to fetch,” I said, and lifted the cloth off the cage to reveal the monkey, who was polishing off some nuts I had just given him.

“Oh, my sainted aunt!” said Abigail, advancing towards the cage. “I don’t suppose you got permission to bring this in here. Never mind. The poor thing... he doesn’t look very well, does he?”

“Unfortunately not,” I said. “He’s from a circus that was closed down.”

“Ah, that would be Thompson’s Amazing Creature Circus. Yes, not before time, too. His creatures were amazing, right enough, for all the wrong reasons.”

“Won’t you sit down, Abigail?” I pointed to the only chair in the room, while I perched on the edge of the bed. “It was good of you to come and talk to me.”

“Yes, well, I think it might be better if you know your master a little better than you obviously do.”

Abigail adjusted her position in the chair and stared at the cracks in the ceiling as she gathered her thoughts.

“I was a young woman, working at The Brown Bear across town. Dr Harwood was a regular there, and was known for being free with his hands. He would bring in women – actresses and dancers, some of them – and take them upstairs for an afternoon. The landlord must have made quite a lot of coin from him. There were rumours about the way he treated the women, but I brushed them off as malicious gossip. And jealousy, because the doctor was a handsome man, and he had a charisma about him.”

“Yes, he’s persuasive, certainly,” I said.

“Indeed. I thought I fancied him, stupid fool that I was, and when I flirted with him, he latched onto me, so to speak. So one day, he persuaded me to come here on my day off – to The Dog and Bone – since I was not allowed to go with the customers at The Brown Bear. He was quite nice to begin with – brought a bottle of wine with him, and poured us both a glass. I was overawed at such a powerful man taking an interest in me. Couldn’t believe my luck! I was foolish to agree to be alone with him, I know it now and I think I knew it then. But I was that flattered. After a while, he undressed and took liberties with me that I didn’t like. He was rough, sir, very rough. And he wouldn’t stop, even when I asked him.”

I grimaced at these uncomfortable revelations.

“He began talking about how cold his wife was. He became more drunk, and while he was pawing at me, he put his hands around my throat and said that he could do that to his wife if he found her cheating, and no one would find out. He could strangle her, or poison her, or throw her off a building, he said, and no one would know because he was a doctor and cleverer than anyone else. He could make a murder look like self-murder.”

Her eyes were watering, and she stopped to blow her nose. “I’m sorry,” I said. “You must have been out of your wits with fear.”

“That I was, sir, that I was. He kept pressing on my throat, and I couldn’t do anything – I thought I was going to die, and my main thought was, who will look after my mother? Eventually everything went black, and when I woke up, he was asleep. I got away, but I had a terrible sore throat for weeks. I can tell you, it was awful seeing him in The Brown Bear after that, but I never said anything to anyone. And then when I heard about Mrs Harwood – I was petrified. I know I should have said something then, but... I was so young. And everyone would have said I was lying, and I was so ashamed of what had happened, that I couldn’t possibly tell anyone. But someone should know, sir. The man is a brute – worse than a brute. God forbid he should carry on doing what he did to me. But I suppose he already has.”

“You are very brave to tell me, Abigail,” I said. “Thank you. I won’t reveal this to anyone without asking your permission first, and only if there is any chance of justice.”

“It’s a relief, sir, just to talk to someone about it after all these years,” she said. “I can’t complain, really, but I still have nightmares, and I’ve not married – you just can’t tell about people, sir, can you?”

“I’m afraid you’re right – you might never really know a person even after many years. But I hope you find someone you can trust, Abigail – you deserve a good, kind man who will treat you well. Such a man would be lucky indeed!”

Abigail tried to smile, and waved her hand dismissively, but started sobbing into her handkerchief. “Thank you, sir,” she said when she had recovered her composure. “I had better go. Goodbye, little monkey. Goodbye, sir!”

I was sickened by what I had heard. A sensible man would surely resign from his position at this point, before being compromised further. But I felt that this story was not yet done, and I still had my part to play; I could not stride off into the wings and leave the remaining actors upon such a dangerous stage. For Julia’s sake – and Margaret’s, and Ned’s – I must help create the final act before the curtain fell on my time at the castle. These pages were as yet unwritten.

Chapter XI

I WAS awoken a few times in the night by the chattering monkey, who seemed to be in better humour with me than with his previous master. The return journey passed without incident, and as I got out of the carriage, Julia was standing at the door. Her curiosity overcame her annoyance with me.

“What do you have there, Mr Longley?” she asked. “What a strange noise!”

I had feared this moment. I knew that Julia would not be happy with either me or her father when she knew that such an animal was destined for the laboratory.

I sighed. “It’s something that your father needs for his work,” I said. “It’s for the advancement of science, he says.” I reluctantly removed the cloth from the cage.

“Oh! A monkey! How wonderful... but he looks unwell, Mr Longley. His fur – and what will become of him? Oh! No, surely not!” She clapped her hand over her mouth as realisation dawned.

“You awful men!” she said, stamping her foot on the gravel and making the monkey jump. “Always ruining everything! Why can’t you just leave things alone?”

I looked away, having no answer. At that moment I felt quite as complicit as the doctor.

Dr Harwood appeared. “Ah! Longley, thank you. He’ll do nicely. I hope I didn’t put you to any trouble.” His insincerity was palpable.

“Papa! How could you? Please let me have him – you can use some other animal, surely – a mouse, or a rabbit? But not a monkey. Can’t you see how intelligent he is? It would be like murder!”

“I’m sorry, Julia. Science must make sacrifices in order to advance. Without that, we would remain savages. And you would not like to be a savage – you like your modern comforts, do you not?”

“Please let me have him! I’ll never ask for anything else.”

But Dr Harwood was resolute. “I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to obtain this specimen, and I’ll use it for the good of mankind – not as a plaything for a little girl.”

Julia was so incensed by this that she could only let out a scream of frustration, before bolting into the house.

“Don’t worry, Longley. She’ll get over it. Now, my shabby friend,” he said, taking the cage, “let’s get you downstairs.”

~

Later that day, I found Julia in the formal garden, feeding Geoffrey. A heavy shadow still hung over her countenance.

“Hello, Julia,” I said as cheerfully as I could, trying to mask my nervousness. “Are you feeling any better? I’m sorry I’m partly the cause of your unhappiness. I had to perform that errand, but I didn’t like it at all.”

Julia remained silent.

“Might I hope for forgiveness?” I said. “I don’t think I’m a bad man. Could someone who holds you in high esteem be entirely wicked?”

She snorted. “Very pretty, Mr Longley. I’m sure you’ve been rehearsing that all afternoon.”

Then she turned and looked at me, seeing the pain on my face. “I’m sorry. That was unkind. It’s just that I don’t seem to understand anything any more. I keep thinking that bad things should only happen in history books, or newspapers, or other places, and they keep happening here, now, right in this house. And if they happen here, then what of the rest of the world? Is it all quite as deficient and hopeless and immoral? If I left, would there be any escape from it? It terrifies me! And it frightens me that a man that I thought good, and decent, and kind, should turn out to be just like everyone else!”

She wiped a tear with her sleeve, and threw some more cheese in the direction of the magpie.

I turned towards her. “Miss Harwood?”

She looked at me, startled by the sudden intensity in my voice. “Yes?”

“I understand why you should be disheartened and disappointed,” I said. “I would be, in your position. But I’m beginning to have the feeling that I came here for a reason – for more than just employment. There are things here that are not as they seem. I can’t explain properly, but can you please just have faith for a little while longer? I intend to prove you wrong about me, and also to persuade you that there is more good in the world than evil. Good will always win.”

She scrutinized me for a moment. “Very well, Mr Longley. Even if I don’t really know what you mean. But you’ll need to give me a really good explanation, at some point.”

I was relieved, and not a little afraid that I might not be able to live up to my fine words.

~

The following afternoon, Julia and I were in the schoolroom discussing the English civil war, when we were interrupted by Mrs Robson. She was looking particularly grim.

“Gentlemen to see you, Mr Longley. They’re in the hall. From the constabulary. They’re very keen to have a word.”

Julia and I looked at each other. “Certainly, Mrs Robson. I’ll come immediately.”

“Now what!” said Julia. “Wanted by the police? What have you done now? Perhaps it’s to do with the monkey.”

“I can’t imagine,” I said. “I’ll be back as soon as I can, but you can make a start on your essay.”

In the hall, two brawny constables were waiting for me, together with Dr Harwood who was wearing a serious expression.

“Good afternoon! How can I help?” I said, mustering a pretence of confidence.

“Good afternoon, sir,” said one. “I’m Constable Jack Slater, and this is Constable Matthew Blair. I’m sorry to bother you, but we need to speak in private, if we may.”

“Please give a full account,” said Dr Harwood. “Best to be honest if there’s anything you know.”

The implication that I might be anything other than honest was disturbing. “Of course, of course,” I said. “In the East Study?” The doctor nodded, and I led the way. The doctor remained in the hall.

“Right then,” said Constable Slater when I had closed the study door. “I believe you were in Carlisle yesterday afternoon – is that correct?”

“Yes, that’s right, on an errand for Dr Harwood.”

“To fetch an animal – a monkey, is that the case?”

“Yes, a monkey that belonged to a circus that went out of business.”

“Aye – Mr Thompson,” Slater said. “We’ve had dealings with him. So, I believe you went to see Miss Letitia Frank in the afternoon, and you were seen leaving at around five o’clock. Can you confirm this?”

“Yes, that’s right – but what –”

“And Miss Frank was in good health when you left her?”

“Yes,” I said, “she had a bad headache, but otherwise she was quite well.”

“Is Miss Frank a friend of yours?”

“No, not really, I had only met her once before.”

“And then,” Slater said, “you stayed overnight at The Dog and Bone – Dr Harwood said – and came straight back here?”

“Yes, I did,” I said. “Can I ask whether anything is wrong?”

“I’m afraid something is wrong,” said Constable Blair, “very wrong indeed. I’m sorry to say that Miss Frank has been found dead.”

I reeled from the news. “Oh my God. Oh no – that can’t be true!”

“I’m sorry to say, sir, that it is,” Blair said. “A passer-by saw her through the window, lying on the floor, and raised the alarm.”

“But how?”

“It’s a mystery at the moment, sir. There were no marks on her, and the door was locked from the inside, so foul play may not be implicated. But you understand, sir, that we have to make inquiries, and especially talk to the last person who saw her alive. Which is probably you, sir,” he added helpfully.

I put my head in my hands. It was hard to believe the delightful Miss Frank, who only yesterday showed promising signs of becoming my friend, was no more.

“You said she had a headache, sir,” Constable Blair said.

“Yes, she complained of having headaches for a few weeks. In fact she said she feared it might be a tumour.”

“Ah – it’s quite possibly the explanation. Is there anything else that you think might be relevant to our inquiries, sir? Anything at all?”

I was in shock, and I quite forgot about the letter from Dr Harwood.

“No, no, nothing. But I will let you know if I think of anything else.”

“Thank you, sir,” Blair said, “we would be much obliged. We will leave you be, sir, and I’m sorry to bring this sad news.”

I followed the constables to the door, and watched as their carriage drove away. As I turned to go inside, Dr Harwood was leaning against the door frame in an incongruously nonchalant manner. “Shame about Letitia,” he said. “That damn pretty head of hers. It must have finally exploded.” And he made a detonation gesture with his hand, matching it with an appropriate sound. “Better keep your nose clean now, eh, Longley! Once they take an interest, you’re a marked man.”

I felt utterly sick, and headed towards my room without another word.

Chapter XII

AS I sat nursing my grief for a woman I had only met twice, and yet had deeply affected me, I contemplated the ingenuity of Dr Harwood’s latest intrigue. In one stroke, he had obtained the specimen he desired; he had (presumably with the ‘remedy’ contained in the letter) exacted revenge against a lover he thought to be untrue, exploiting Miss Frank’s headache to throw the police off the scent; and he had thrown suspicion upon me, so that I would be motivated to avoid the attentions of the constables in future.

The doctor’s hubris would surely catch up with him. But in the meantime, how much more damage would he do?

I opened Margaret’s diary, in the hope of inspiration for my next steps.

January 5th, 1831. Another blissful few hours with Ned in the cottage. And yet, I am starting to feel that the excitement of our trysts is giving way to a fear for the future. How can such a friendship persist? I cannot give Ned what he needs – a wife he can grow old with, and be a normal husband to; and I cannot continue to dissemble without arousing suspicion. This cannot go on, and yet my heart wishes it to.

February 9th, 1831. The moment I had dreaded has arrived. I am late. I hope against hope that this is just a little irregularity, but I fear the worst. My mind races forward to all kind of schemes – and all kinds of consequences.

March 3rd, 1831. It is beyond doubt now; I am in terrible trouble. It will soon be apparent, and then what? I dare not think what Oliver might do. For he will know it is not his, and it is too late to lie with him to provide an alibi for myself. But I could not anyway – he disgusts me too much. He gets his comforts Lord knows where, and I have no wish to be just another of his whores.

I sighed. This story became sadder at every turn; I could not stomach any more revelations today. So, in what was becoming a habit when melancholy struck, I sought out Julia. I found her in the East Study, reading. I wondered if she went there to feel closer to her mother.

“Hello, Miss Harwood,” I said. “I’m sorry I didn’t come back to the schoolroom. I felt unwell, and needed a little time to recover.”

“I forgive you, Mr Longley. I couldn’t concentrate anyway. I hope you are feeling better. What did those policemen want?”

“I’m afraid they came with sad news,” I said. “A friend of your father’s died.”

“Oh dear! How awful. Did I know them?”

“Yes, it was Miss Frank.”

“No!” she said. “How? I didn’t like her, particularly, but that’s dreadful. Did they say what happened?”

“She seemed to have been taken ill,” I said, “and her death is not suspicious – so they said, anyway.”

“I see. That’s so sad. But why did they want to speak to you, and not Papa?”

“Apparently,” I said, “I was the last person to see her alive, because I went to fetch the monkey from her.”

Julia grimaced, and was silent for a few moments. I sensed her mind positing the notion that I might have something to do with Letitia’s death, and then – thankfully – rejecting it.

“I’m so sorry, Mr Longley. That must be difficult for you. The last person!”

“Yes,” I said, “and I found her a more likeable person when I went to see her. That makes it especially moving. We could easily have been friends.”

“Is Papa upset? They seemed to be good friends. That is, when he wasn’t being horrible to her.”

“He took the news well. I expect he is hiding his grief.” I felt the need to cover up her father’s lack of humanity, for her sake.

Julia stood up suddenly. “I don’t want to talk about this any more! It’s too grim. What shall we do?”

“A game of cards?” I suggested.

“No, a walk, I think. I need to stretch my legs. Are you coming?”

“Certainly!” I replied. “Shall we see what’s going on at the abbey?”

~

We kept our distance from the excavations at the abbey, but we could see a large pit in the House of Strangers, near where we had sat.

“I hope they don’t disturb the ruins too much,” said Julia. “But Papa said that it is in the contract to restore the land to exactly how it was. But of course – it’s your fault that they’re digging in the abbey!”

“Yes, I’m sorry,” I said. “I think they will take care, though, since they will know better than to cross your father.”

We walked silently for a few minutes, and I hoped that the glorious sunshine and the natural beauty around us would distract Julia from her annoyance with me.

“Mr Longley,” she said, clasping her necklace, which was made of colourful beads. “I would like to know, now, what my mother was singing in your dream.”

“If you wish – it was Dido’s Lament.”

Julia started and broke her necklace, the beads cascading to the ground. “Bother. It was my mother’s,” she said, and started scrabbling for the beads. I joined in, and scooped as many as I could into my waistcoat pocket.

Julia sat on the ground and absently picked some daisies. “I thought it might be that. It’s one of the songs I remember her singing when I was a child. I couldn’t understand how it could make me cry when I also loved it so.”

“Yes, a wonderful example of ‘sweet sorrow’,” I said. “It is strange how we can be attracted to beautiful melancholy – we crave the emotion, as some crave caffeine or opium. But it’s a drug that appeals to our intellect too.”

Julia signed. “I would love to go to concerts – or hold a concert here! But Papa isn’t interested. Perhaps you could take me?”

“I would be honoured,” I said, “if your father agrees. In fact, I will put it in your syllabus!”

“Thank you! Please do,” Julia said, getting up. “The sun is so strong – I think I would like to go in now.”

Chapter XIII

THE following day, I was summoned for supper with Dr Harwood and Julia. I assumed he wanted to torture me in some manner, and was quite prepared for it. The more he uncovered the blackness of his soul, the more I knew about him, and the more ammunition I had for whatever battles lay ahead.

“I wanted to celebrate a little success I have had,” Dr Harwood said as we were served our main course. “It’s a side-study, or hobby, if you will, on the subject of chemical change over time. Here, fill your glasses.”

“Let me guess,” said Julia. “You have managed to create the most evil smell known to mankind in your laboratory?”

Dr Harwood almost choked on his wine. “Very good!” he boomed. “Very droll. Yes, that goes without saying. My laboratory is not fit for delicate ladies such as yourself.”

He wiped the table where he had spat out some wine. “No, that is not it. I have been working on different compositions of ink, with unusual properties. I now have two inks: the first will appear black as usual, but only for a few days, or a few hours, depending on the formulation. So, a message can be made to disappear after it is read – useful for our intelligence services, or the military, would you not say, Longley?”

I nodded.

“Now the other ink is equally interesting. It is the converse of the first, in that the ink is initially invisible, and after a few days – or hours – becomes opaque.”

Julia looked sceptical. “What in God’s name is the point of that?”

“Please don’t curse, child,” said Dr Harwood. “It doesn’t suit you. But you ask a good question. It is not so obvious, is it?”

The doctor looked pleased with himself, so I supposed that he would soon furnish us with some clever answer. I was a little annoyed with myself for not being able to think of one good use for his chemical parlour trick. Except, of course, as a parlour trick.

“I cannot imagine, sir. Please do enlighten us.”

“Well, I can think of one situation where using both inks would have a most intriguing result. Let’s say you write a letter in one ink on one side of a piece of paper; and a letter in the other kind of ink on the other side of the paper. You send the letter to your friend, with a note to read it and then pass it on to a second friend in a couple of days. What do you think will happen then?”

Julia thought for a moment and then said, “Each friend would see a different letter, although they would assume they had read the same one.”

“Precisely, my girl! Precisely.”

“So the purpose of your inks is simply to confuse people? That doesn’t seem either a nice thing to do, or remotely useful,” said Julia.

“Ah, but you lack the imagination and experience to know that confusion can be a very powerful commodity! I believe this will prove lucrative – once I’ve had a little fun with it myself. After all, once it’s generally known, it will lose some of its power.”

Dr Harwood triumphantly raised his glass, and reluctantly I raised mine.

“To Dr Harwood’s Special Inks!” he said.

“Congratulations,” I murmured, and drank my wine. I was beginning to see the ink’s potential for mischief, and a feeling of dread stole over me. Was Dr Harwood signalling something to me? That the letter I had delivered was written with his ‘special ink’? If so, that could not be good.

“Imagine the trouble a crooked lawyer could cause!” continued the doctor. “An unsuspecting client would sign a document that, before long, obliges him to do something entirely different. It could be subtle, such as a clause in an insurance document, or less subtle, such as changing the recipient of a will.”

“But this is a wicked thing to do,” said Julia. “It will only cause terrible harm!”

“Not necessarily, Julia. Think of an implement such as a knife. You can use it for preparing a meal or cutting a length of rope, or you can use it for murder. It’s neither good nor bad – it simply exists, for people to choose its application.”

“How could it be good, though?” said Julia.

“It could be used for confounding our enemies, or perhaps catching criminals. But it’s not up to me to decide these things. It’s simply a tool – and if I hadn’t invented it, then someone else would – eventually – have done so!”

At that moment, I heard shouting outside. “Dr Harwood! Come quickly!” I stood up, and through the window I could see a man in rough working clothes, waving his arms. “The treasure!”

Dr Harwood looked dumbfounded. “Well, I’ll be darned! Excuse me, please,” he said, and left the room.

However, Julia and I were far too intrigued to remain in the dining room. We followed Dr Harwood to the hall, where the housekeeper was trying to calm the young man down. “I must see him, now!” he was saying. “Ah! Sir! You said if we found anything, to come and tell you! And I think we’ve found it!”

The doctor looked a little sceptical. He clearly had not expected anything to be found.

“Explain, please! What exactly have you found?”

“It’s the top of a treasure chest, sir. I’m working on my own this evening, and I hit something that sounded hollow. I put my shovel through some rotten wood, and I could see gold.”

He put his hand in his pocket and triumphantly pulled out a gold coin. “There!”

Dr Harwood took the coin and examined it. “Yes, it would appear to be gold. How extraordinary! Where did you find this, exactly?”

“In the House for Strangers, sir, at the abbey. Just like the map said.”

Julia looked at me in wonder. When she found the words, she said quietly, “Mr Longley, I – I owe you an apology.” I bowed my head in response, not entirely feeling I deserved it, but grateful nonetheless.

“We will mount a little expedition to look at this find,” said Dr Harwood, turning to me. “Longley, come with me. Julia, please stay in the house for now.”

“Oh, Papa, but, please?”

“Julia, stay,” barked the doctor as if at a misbehaving hound, and Julia scowled.

Dr Harwood turned to the treasure hunter. “Your name?”

“Tranton, sir. Dick Tranton.”

“Mr Tranton, please wait by the treasure, and we will be along in about twenty minutes.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Come,” he said to me, and I followed him to his laboratory.

~

“Very well,” said the doctor, when we had entered the cold, damp room, a place that I could scarcely wait to get out of. “This is an unexpected turn of events. I did not believe in the existence of the treasure, Mr Longley: I did not believe a word of it. But sometimes myth is built on a grain of truth.”

I nodded. “Assuming that’s a full chest of coins, you will be able to make all the repairs you wish to the castle,” I said. “And the treasure hunters and their backers will have their lives thoroughly transformed! It will be a national story. I hope you are ready for fame, Dr Harwood!”

I was glad to be able to turn the tables and add a hint of menace in my last remark. For renown was something Dr Harwood would not wish for. It might illuminate the dark recesses of his life and his soul that he wished to keep obscured.

“Ah, there you are wrong, Mr Longley. There will be no fame, no sudden riches – in fact, there will be no treasure.”

“I’m sorry, sir: I don’t understand you. No treasure?”

“Yes,” continued Dr Harwood, pulling open a drawer and retrieving a pistol. “I have no intention of giving away half of my treasure, contract or no contract. And I also wish to continue renting my properties to gullible fools – it’s a satisfying addition to my income.”

“But surely,” I said, alarmed at this development, “you will have no need for that? Even half the treasure chest should make you extremely wealthy.”

“We don’t yet know how much there is. But whatever the value, it is a poor businessman who says ‘Enough!’ No, we will not throw away half a fortune.”

“But they earned it, sir! They have sweated blood, for so many years. Does this man not deserve a reward?”

“Oh yes,” said Dr Harwood. “And you will give it to him, with this.” He handed me the weapon. “It’s loaded. Can you use it?”

“Yes, but –”

“Good. And now I will tell you why you are going to use it. You are already known to the police. A letter exists, in Miss Frank’s rooms, that declares eternal love for her, signed by one Rufus Longley. It further says that if you can’t have her, then no one will. It’s a classic of the genre, though I say so myself. And a wonderful application of Dr Harwood’s Special Inks. When it is found, you will be shown to be a liar with a violent streak, and you are likely to hang.”

“Then I will hang, whether I do this dreadful thing or not!” I said.

“Not so. Now that you know about it, we can extract the letter before it is found. But only if you do as I say. And there’s no point in shooting me, Mr Longley, because then you will have two murders to answer for.”

Chapter XIV

I DID not want to hang, and neither did I want to shoot the poor treasure hunter who thought all his problems had been solved. So I had little choice but to hope that I would think of a solution in the next few minutes.

Concealing the weapon under my waistcoat, I followed Dr Harwood up from the basement and through the garden. As he strode towards the abbey, I fumbled in my pocket in desperate search of some inspiration, and – miraculously – I found it.

As we approached the pit, Dick Tranton was standing next to it beaming with pride and excitement. “There’s just enough light to see it, sir,” he said.

The doctor peered over the edge. “Yes, very good, Mr Tranton. I can see some gold glinting. And now, Mr Longley, if you can do the honours?”

I stepped forward and withdrew the pistol. Mr Tranton’s smile vanished. “What, sir? Is this – some kind of joke?”

“I’m afraid not, Tranton,” said Dr Harwood. “You see, I’m not a man of my word. I’m greedy. It’s your misfortune to have believed me: indeed, to have had anything to do with me. But you mustn’t blame yourself: you’re not the first. Longley!”

He gestured towards Tranton, and I pointed the pistol at him. I hesitated. “I can’t do it, Dr Harwood. I won’t do it.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Longley, must I do everything?” said the doctor, and he grabbed the gun from me, and raised the pistol in line with his eye.

Tranton had gone deathly pale and had sunk to his knees. “Please, sir! You may have all the treasure. I don’t want it! Please, I don’t want to die! It’s not fair! If you just let me go, I won’t say anything, I promise.”

The doctor cocked the pistol. “Goodbye, Tranton,” he said, and I threw myself onto the ground, covering my head.

I heard an explosion, and I turned in time to see the doctor still standing, most of his face replaced with a bloody mess. After a strangely long moment, he fell; his body twitched, then lay still, and I knew that he was dead.

My ears were painfully ringing, and some splinters of wood had embedded themselves in my waistcoat, but I seemed to be unharmed. Tranton was still on his knees, covering his face with his hands, groaning, “No, no, no”. He had not yet realised that he had been spared. I went to him and put my arm around him. “Mr Tranton, all is well. You are alive, and the doctor is dead.” Tranton slowly uncovered his face, and on realising the truth of what I said, started crying hysterically and thanking me, clutching at my legs.

At the sound of the explosion, Julia and the housekeeper came running out of the house. I intercepted Julia. “You must not look. I’m afraid your father is dead,” I said, and led her back to the house.

“No! How could this be?” Julia said, sobbing. “What did you do to him? He was perfectly fine not ten minutes ago!”

“This will be hard to explain,” I said. “But he wanted Tranton dead, and he wanted me to do it.”

Julia sobbed all the more. “You are lying!” she said. “My father is not a murderer.”

“He was not an honourable man, Julia,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“But how?” she said. “How did he die? What was that noise?”

“I knew I wasn’t going to kill Tranton,” I said, “even though your father had offered me the alternative of a noose. I didn’t know what I was going to do. But I found your necklace beads in my pocket, which I had forgotten about. So on the way to the pit, I stuffed them in the gun barrel, lots of them, as hard as I could. Then the only thing the gun could be used for was self-destruction. He took the weapon from me, and it blew apart when he pulled the trigger, killing him instantly. I’m so sorry.”

~

I left Julia sobbing into Mrs Melshir’s apron, while Mrs Robson and I tried to bring order to the chaotic scene. A blanket was thrown over the doctor’s body, weighed down with stones, and a watch was organised to prevent anything disturbing the body – or the treasure – until the police could be sent for in the morning. I took the traumatised Mr Tranton back to his cottage and talked to him for a while until he was calm.

Heading back to the castle, the day’s events started to catch up with me. I had not had time to reflect, and in the hall I sat down and put my head in my hands. Mrs Robson came into the hall, and offered me some sympathy.

“You’ve had a terrible time of it, Mr Longley. I can’t say I’m sorry about Dr Harwood, although I do wonder what will happen to the staff here. But poor Miss Julia! She won’t know what to think. First her mother, now this! But you must be hungry, sir. Shall we go into the kitchen and find something to eat?”

I was beginning to feel better. “Thank you, Mrs Robson. That’s very kind. But I’m not hungry at the moment. I think I’ll just see how Julia is and wish her good night.”

“She’s in bed, Mr Longley, but I expect a brief visit is all right considering the circumstances. She’ll be glad to see you.”

I mounted the elaborate marble staircase, and after pausing on the landing, I heard a sob that sounded as though it belonged to Julia. Following the sound, I knocked quietly and poked my head around the door. Julia was sitting up wiping her face with a handkerchief.

“Oh, Mr Longley! Please come in. I wondered where you were.”

“Sorry – I’ve been busy trying to organise things. Everything is as ordered as it can be at the moment. I see you have company,” I said, gesturing towards the ginger cat that had made itself at home next to Julia.

“Yes. She is a great comfort,” said Julia, stroking the cat’s chin. “She’s the only creature here that has no idea of what’s going on. Where’s my father?”

“We decided we shouldn’t move him, so he’s under a blanket, and under guard. We will send for the police tomorrow.” I perched on the edge of the bed and leaned over to stroke the cat, who found this level of attention quite acceptable.

“Goodness. And the constables will want to talk to you again! They will be getting suspicious about you, won’t they?”

“I’ll just have to explain myself well, then,” I said. “I think there is enough evidence pointing to your father’s character – my apologies, Julia, but I have to say it.”

“What kind of evidence?”

“There’s a diary, and people I have talked to have stories,” I said. “And there are some slides in his laboratory that tell a grim tale.”

“A diary? My father’s?”

“Your mother’s,” I said.

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“It was a little disturbing,” I said. “I wanted to understand it first, and then let you down gently. I’m sorry if I did the wrong thing.”

“Oh, you were probably right,” Julia said. “I’m too confused to know any more. What on earth do we all do now?”

I got up and started pacing the room. “I assume you inherit the castle. Which would make you the mistress of Wolsington.”

Julia laughed nervously. “Fancy that. What a terrifying responsibility!”

“But the staff will help make everything run as smoothly as possible,” I said. “You are much loved here!”

“Do you think so?” she said.

“I know so,” I said, walking over to her bedside and kissing her free hand.

She smiled and looked up at me. “And what will you do, Mr Tutor?”

I shrugged. “I could make myself useful here, if you want. I think you have outgrown my tutoring, but I could help to get the estate in good order, and do penance with the treasure hunters – we could find as many of them as possible, and give them some compensation with your share of the treasure. But I’m speaking out of turn, and spending your money! Forgive me.”

“That’s quite all right, Rufus.” She used my Christian name for the first time, looking for my reaction. “I think it’s a splendid idea. I don’t want you to go. We will have to think of an official title for you.”

“Principal Factotum? I really don’t mind what I do here. Wolsington seems to be in my blood now.”

Julia smiled at me, but then her face drooped with exhaustion. I said good night, and headed to my own room with a full mind.

Chapter XV

THE next morning, the police were summoned, and we were all quizzed about recent events. It was a little complicated to explain, and I promised to give them a written report as soon as possible. The doctor’s body was taken away, and the two treasure hunters retrieved the chest, which was deposited in a strong room in the castle. We thanked Mr Tranton and his colleague, and gave them a couple of coins each with the assurance that the rest of their share would soon follow.

My accommodation was upgraded to a large and splendid bedroom near the East Study. I had a fine view of the grounds, and of the abbey ruins, scarred with pits that would soon be covered over.

What was my role here now? My presence had dramatically changed life at Wolsington, as well as my own. I knew the position that I wished to occupy, but it seemed arrogant, and I was by no means sure of myself in this regard. Julia was young; but even during the short time I had been here, she had matured. With no parents, she would have to be self-reliant. I did not envy her the stewardship of this ancient and crumbling estate. That would age her quickly enough, to be sure.

In the following days, I was busy, and did not have much time to indulge such thoughts. I called on Miss Beatty, and told her that the police were now investigating Ned’s disappearance in the light of the evidence in the laboratory. She wept bitterly, but thanked me for getting to the truth. It was, at least, something like a conclusion to Ned’s story, and she could now mourn.

I also went to The Dog and Bone in Carlisle and sought out Abigail, who had so bravely helped me understand the doctor’s unpleasant nature. She had already heard of his death, and expressed her relief that no one else could be hurt by him. Her eyes widened when I described Dr Harwood’s explosive end. “Well done, sir!” she said. “He wasn’t so smart after all, was he?”

No letter was found in Miss Frank’s rooms; she had probably burnt it. But even if it were to surface, the police were primed with the expectation of its contents, and I could rest easy in the knowledge that I would not be under suspicion for her death. I was also exculpated from any responsibility for Dr Harwood’s demise, given the circumstances. However, it would have been better for Julia had the coroner refrained from noting the irony of Margaret’s – and Julia’s – necklace beads having been instrumental in the doctor’s death.

Because the treasure clearly belonged to the family, it was not counted as ‘treasure trove’ and the government had no claim over it. It was counted, banked, and a share given to the current treasure hunters. The treasure mostly comprised of gold and silver coins, but there was also some fine jewellery and plate which Julia decided to lend to the British Museum; this would save her the worry of storing it at the castle. I gathered names of other people who had suffered deception and hardship at the doctor’s hands, and although we could not undo all the consequences – including, alas, a suicide and terrible deprivation – we did what we could for those still living.

I read the remaining entries of Margaret’s diary. The last one was tear-stained, and indicated the doctor’s state of mind all too plainly.

June 27th, 1831. I had a terrible row with Oliver. He knows I am with child. It is when he becomes quiet and sarcastic that I know to expect the worst, and he has been this way all day. He said that the only way to preserve the family honour would be for me to kill myself. I will not do that! How could he suggest it? So I am fearful he will do something terrible, and also to Ned, who has twice missed our accustomed appointment. I don’t know who to turn to. There is no one! If anything happens to me, whoever finds this diary – please, please look after my Julia!

This entry, which I copied into my report to the police along with others that were relevant, was instrumental in the instigation of a new inquest. This found that Dr Harwood had, most likely, forced his wife to the highest room in the tower, before pushing her off. While Julia had to live with the knowledge that her father had killed her mother, she could at least be reassured that her mother had no intention of abandoning her by means of self-destruction.

The laboratory we had to leave in its existing state for the foreseeable future. It contained a good deal of potential evidence of the doctor’s crimes. However, the monkey had not yet been made a subject of Dr Harwood’s grisly investigations, and with Julia’s care, he gradually grew less lethargic and timid. Even his fur began to recover. Julia was delighted by him, and converted one of the castle’s many unfurnished rooms into a larger home for him, with tea crates and branches for furniture. One of the constables had asked if he had a name; Julia said that she hadn’t decided on one yet, but it would need to be a name that sounded intelligent, for such a clever animal.

“Let me see,” the constable had said. “The most intelligent man I ever met was a chief constable – Northminster way. Major Giles Vernon. Uncanny fellow – can tell what a criminal is going to do almost before he’s done it.”

“It’s settled! Giles it is,” Julia had said. “Hello, Giles!”

“If I see the Major again,” the constable had replied, “I’ll let him know. He’ll appreciate the compliment, miss, I’m sure of it!”

~

My friendship with Julia grew. But I did not want to rush; I still felt like a clumsy stranger, having barged my way into this little community causing disruption and tragedy, albeit through no fault of my own. It seemed wise to be cautious, and to give Julia time to decide what she wanted to do. There had been so much change in her life. She had read some of the diary, and there were many tears. It was not easy to read; but it was best that she had the full picture, and came to terms with it.

Two weeks after Dr Harwood’s death, Julia had read enough, and I took the diary inside its sarcophagus to the East Study. I could see Julia outside, teaching Geoffrey some new words.

I looked again at Margaret’s portrait, illuminated in morning sunlight that intensified each brush stroke; she smiled down at me, and I bowed to her in return.

I sat down in the chair that doubled as library steps, opposite Margaret’s favourite armchair, and the sunshine made me drowsy. I thought of Margaret sitting there, listening to Julia’s voice outside, and the birdsong, just as I was now doing. I shut my eyes and breathed in the rose scent that had filled the room. After a few moments, Margaret’s Bible, which I was about to return to its former resting place, slipped out of my hand. As I picked it up, her notebook fell out. I retrieved it, and it opened on the very last page. At the bottom – after which no more text could be written, however small and neat – was an entry that I had not noticed before, bearing today’s date and written in a hand that I recognised well.

September 28th, 1843. I am in my familiar haven, and I can see my dear, grown-up Julia through the window, still child-like, and yet becoming such an extraordinary young woman. And Rufus – I have been watching you, and I know that you are a kind and brave man who will take good care of my daughter. With all my heart I wish you happiness, gentle Rufus and sweet Julia. May you find joy together, for all of your lives!

I opened my eyes with a start, and found the Bible on the floor. I was about to check the last page of the diary, but thought better of it, and, after unfurling the steps, I carefully placed the Bible back on the shelf.

Julia was calling. “Rufus! Where are you? Are you coming for a walk?”

I waved at her through the window. I knew that the ghosts of Julia’s past were starting to fade; a new life was taking shape, and the separate tracks of our two lives had joined, perhaps irrevocably. But the future could take care of itself. Today was ours to be enjoyed entirely as we pleased: in the bright sunshine, out of the immense shadow of Wolsington Castle.

~//~

From Anthemion

By Julian Smart

The Hawksbridge Angels: Thomas Rufford Mystery 1

The Train to Hawksbridge: Thomas Rufford Mystery 2

The Ramsburgh Variations: Thomas Rufford Mystery 3

The Hawksbridge Worm: Thomas Rufford Mystery 4

By Harriet Smart

The Butchered Man: Northminster Mystery 1

The Dead Songbird: Northminster Mystery 2

The Shadowcutter: Northminster Mystery 3

The Hanging Cage: Northminster Mystery 4

The Ghosts of Ardenthwaite: Northminster Mystery 5

The Echo at Rooke Court: Northminster Mystery 6

The Fatal Engine: Northminster Mystery 7

The Witches of Pitfeldry: Northminster Mystery 8

Moonshine and Mercury: Northminster Mystery 9

Tarleton’s Coffer: Northminster Mystery 10

The Wounded Oak: Northminster Mystery 11

Mummer’s Night: A Northminster Novella

Carswell’s First Case: A Northminster Novella

Emma Vernon’s Northminster Ghost Stories

The Dolls at Heron’s Reach

The True Value of Pearls

The Daughters of Blane

Green Grow the Rushes

The Wild Garden

The Lark Ascending

Reckless Griselda

A Tempting Proposal

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THE THOMAS RUFFORD MYSTERIES

by Julian Smart

Book 1: The Hawksbridge Angels

Thomas Rufford has tried to put his demons behind him and build a career in Victorian Oxford, but he has not found happiness. When he unexpectedly inherits an estate in Northumberland, he decides to seize the opportunity to become the master of Ramsburgh and his own fate.

Ramsburgh is ancient and romantic, and he discovers that the neighbouring town of Hawksbridge is full of diversion and opportunities for friendship, and perhaps more. However, beneath the tranquil surface of the town, all is not well. The advent of a major artistic project seems a cause for celebration, but then tragedy strikes. Just as Thomas is beginning to find his feet in his new home, he is drawn into a murder investigation and a dangerous quest for the truth.

Thomas discovers an unexpected talent for solving deadly riddles and deepens his bonds with the remarkable women who assist him. But then, even as triumph seems within reach, Thomas finds he can no longer run from his past and he is faced with losing everything.

The Hawksbridge Angels is a tense but warm-hearted historical mystery that follows one man’s hunt for purpose, justice and love, set against a background of country houses and small-town life in 19th-century northern England.

Available in digital and paperback editions: US | UK | AU | CA

Other titles available in this series:

The Thomas Rufford Mysteries 2: The Train to Hawksbridge

The Thomas Rufford Mysteries 3: The Ramsburgh Variations

The Thomas Rufford Mysteries 4: The Hawksbridge Worm